Unexpected Guests
by Shinatty
Summary: Freelance writer Arthur Kirkland buys a new house for himself, not caring about how strangely cheap it was, and yet so big. However, he finds out that a certain someone is in the house with him. And he's not alive. How will he get rid of him? M now
1. Unexpected Guest

Chapter one:

Arthur entered the house. It had been a while since he had ever moved; his apartment now long forgotten and his new _house_ taking that special spot in his heart. It was just a house, but it meant something to him. Apparently his grandfather had died (bless his soul) in the house, and Arthur had inherited the small amount of land, even though he had never exactly met his grandfather. The Brit always thought he was a little cuckoo in the head, so visits were always overlapped with business meetings, etc. Now his grandfather was dead and he had a new house. This didn't sound bad at all- he even got to keep everything inside! He could find olden novels! One thing that Arthur really loved was the smell of old books. Yes, it sounded queer, but he didn't care—just holding the books and touching the pages made him feel as if he was a real author now.

Arthur Kirkland was a writer. Is a writer—he didn't really know. He wrote stories… but they were all rejected by large publishers, who thought his stories were mediocre, and not even a tad bit interesting. It made him grit his teeth in disgust, "Let's see /you/ try and write an award winning book, bloody wankers," the blond muttered to himself as he dragged his suitcase inside the large three story house, and despite the depressing memories, he couldn't help but smile at how… beautiful and cosy the house was. It was already like home.

Damn those stupid neighbours that had given him 'the look' when he had arrived at the doorstep of this amazing house. You don't know 'the look'? It's that look when someone just wants you to know that they are disappointed, scared, and that they don't want to interact at all. He would be lonely. He had books and tea though. That seemed enough. … Though he _would_really like to have someone to keep him company—what was that. His eyes widened as he heard something. Gulping a little in fear, he put down his suitcase and looked around, "… Hello?"

No one answered.

"…" Shaking his head, he picked up his suitcase once more and gulped again. His mind was playing tricks on him. But of course, nothing could be in the house—maybe it was a cute kitten! Arthur flushed in embarrassment, 'You're a man, and men don't like cute things. They like… cool things…?' he shook his head and groaned. Thank god no one was here. Or they would see him… be paranoid.

The Brit sighed and dragged his suitcase up the stairs, his face scrunched up with a frown from the slight pain on his arm from taking the heavy suitcase up. Then he found his room. Well… He hoped it was, because it was just gorgeous. It was huge, and there was the most beautiful working desk—he could write without having anyone to tell him that he sucked. Sighing happily, he put down the suitcase and stretched, snuggling onto one side of the bed; it was clean! "This is so nice…" he mumbled to himself.

"… Oui, it is very nice."

What. Arthur's eyes widened and he turned his head to the side to meet another pair of eyes. On a man. Who looked much more pale than usual, and Arthur's eyes went down to scan his body. Oh god. The British man jumped off the bed in fear, screaming and covering his mouth, trembling.

The man had no legs. It was just… a misty… cloud thing. It was faded from his body. Who was—what was this man? Thing? Arthur whimpered and walked backwards, clearly afraid, and he collapsed on the floor as he whispered, "B-Bloody hell—what are you?"

The man glided closer to him, floating above the ground, hovering. Yes. Hovering. Oh god. "I'm a ghost," the other blond said, smiling fondly, "It's nice to meet you—my name is Francis Bonnefoy," he held out his pale hand.

"A GHOST?" Arthur backed away and hit the wall, it felt as if he was hyperventilating; this could not be happening. Was he like Casper? "C-C-Casper?"

The ghost, or Francis, laughed and grinned at him, "No, I'm not Casper, I already told you I was Francis. And you are…?"

"The man who owns this house, NOW GET OUT!" Arthur yelled, face pale, as a shaky finger pointed at the door.

Francis just stood there. Well, floated there.

"W-Whatever," git, you're just hallucinating! "You'll be gone in the morning, so I don't need to care about a wanker like you," Arthur huffed and crossed his arms, then stormed through the ghost.

Oh god.

That was cold. Chilly cold. His body shuddered and he almost let out a small whimper at how he felt –dare he say it? - sad. Was that strange? It was as if unhappy thoughts were running through his body—and he shuddered once more, his eyes welling up, then he pointed at the ghost, "Wh-What did you do?"

"I never told you to walk through me- you just did it yourself," the other man (ghost) said, lying on the bed and stretching, letting his eyes scan over the Brit's body as he smirked (why would he do that?) and he said, "Ghosts are ghosts because they weren't able to move on. And that's sad; so when you walk through us, you feel our pain."

"Feel… _you__r_ pain?" Arthur looked horrified as he hastily wiped at his almost-tears, and he pursed his lips together, asking bluntly, "How did you die?"

The ghost rolled his eyes and muttered almost inaudibly, "Mon dieu, so rude—" then he coughed and continued, "I was shot," Francis slowly stripped his shirt off, causing Arthur's eyes to widen and his cheeks only darken slightly as he spluttered, "B-Bloody fuck—what are you doing?"

Finally, the shirt was off and Arthur's breath involuntarily hitched in shock when his eyes saw a small, yet obvious hole in the other's body. "… Why?" he mumbled softly, not exactly scared of this ghost anymore. Arthur just thought he was still a prick.

Francis slid his shirt back on, a few puffs of mist appearing while he dressed, and he shrugged, "Don't know why. Just… got shot next to the house and now my soul dwells here," the Frenchman chuckled and stared at the Brit, "You still haven't told me _your_name."

"… Arthur Kirkland," he grumbled, crossing his arms, and acting as if he didn't give a rat's arse about how or why he died. But he actually did. He hadn't had an actual friend for a while—and he really wanted one. Maybe Francis could be the one! Wait. Fran… cis… "… Are you—were you French?"

"Oui."

"Well, fuck you!"

Francis looked a little confused and a little offended, but he shrugged it off—hearing the others accent just made him even surer that the other blond was British. Wonderful combination to go with French, no? "I'm sorry, I don't think fucking me will do you any good," Francis smirked and flicked his hair to the side, trying not to laugh at how the Brit's face turned even more flushed, blotches of red on his face as he spluttered again, but nothing came out.

The ghost pushed down the small emotion that he hadn't felt in a long time—pretty cute, this human.

"Well—you're just a figment of. My. Mind! A-And when I wake up, you'll be g-gone, you sodding wanker!" he stood back up and brushed the dust off of his pants, then held his nose high in the air, huffing and pointing to the door, "N-now get out!"

The ghost shrugged and nodded, "I'll see you tomorrow then, Arthur—" "GET OUT!" "Bonnenuit," and he glided through the floor and disappeared.

Buying this house was a complete mistake; Arthur thought to himself, I'm going mental already.

Authors note:

I'm done with ten chapters of this story, so I think I should actually post my story for once, so here it is! The first chapter! Hopefully you guys will like it! Favourites and reviews are all the love I need 3 (and maybe recommendations to yer friends XD /shot) hopefully you'll like it! And new chapters will be updated each Friday! Unless I didn't have the time to update, but pshhh, I WILL UPDATE. Awwyea.


	2. It Starts Now

Chapter 2

Breakfast was wonderful. Well, it was much better once the Brit had stopped thinking about the poltergeist; Arthur didn't exactly believe that the ghost from yesterday actually existed. Even though his fairy friends told him otherwise, he chose not to believe them. Ghosts. Do. Not. Exist. Right? Finishing his tea, he sighed and rubbed at his own eyes, small little scenes of him and the French filled his brain. The man flushed in embarrassment and he shook his head, trying to push the pictures out. Goddamnit.

He took the dirty dishes and placed them in the sink of the kitchen, looking around, almost expecting something to just… no. Impossible. Sighing (almost in disappointment), Arthur started washing the dishes, and after a few minutes of washing, he started humming—but then felt something touching his wrist.

He turned around.

Francis stood there.

The Brit almost hurled out his breakfast, thinking of how the other had _rubbe__d_ his waist—"W-What the—" Arthur's eyes scanned the French's body, his pupils growing smaller at the sight. No way. "W-Why are you alive?"

Yesterday the French ghost had been only shades of white and black, almost like a moving photograph, and had mist for where his legs should be; and now he had colour, had legs, and most of all, he was _warm_. The touch had made Arthur actually warm. What the bloody hell was going on? "I'm still dead," Francis smiled sadly and rubbed his hands together, trying to gain some of his own warmth, "I turn back 'human' every other day, just to find out how I can move on. Heaven," he shrugged, "Harder than it seems."

The shorter European stood there, trying to digest everything in a calm manner. His finger flicked out to poke at the others clothed stomach, and then he gasped and pulled away. Solid. Okay. The Brit walked around the French, staring and poking at places, "… Zombie?"

Rolling his eyes, Francis sighed and ran a hand through his, now blond, hair, "Non. I am a ghost. Just a special one. I'm trying to leave this house for once. I can't even step out of the door—I need to move on," he sighed again and his eyes scanned the confused looking Brit, "It means I have something I regret doing on earth—so now I need to do it to make me legible to go to heaven. I told you a while ago. All of this is just annoying and tedious," the taller blond huffed.

Wait. Arthur stood there, silent. So. If Francis—if the git found out what he had regretted in his life, he could go to heaven? And leave me forever? And then _I'll_be in heaven? "… Oi, wanker," the Brit gritted his teeth and poked his chest, wanting to look like he was higher authority. Cause he was living and all, "… I'll help. Not because I'm a nice person—but because I want you out of this house as quick as possible!"

The ghost rolled his eyes again, but then held out his hand, "Deal?"

Arthur reluctantly shook the other's hand, holding onto it, "… Deal, you git."

The French smirked and squeezed his hand gently, already addicted to the warmth that the other had radiated. He really hated how this certain human could melt the coldness out of him. Francis blamed it on the fact that Arthur was the only human he had touched in years. Fifteen years, to be exact. Then the warmth faded.

"Stop holding my hand, arsehole," Arthur pulled his hand back and rubbed it against his pants, a look of disgust on his face as he huffed and grumbled under his breath (something that sounded faintly like: burn these pants or something).

The French felt slightly hurt. He wasn't _dirty_. Okay, maybe his _mind_was dirty, but his body couldn't be dirty at all. Was being dead a bad thing? Of course it's a bad thing, Sacre bleu, you're dead for god's sake. But he wasn't dirty. Looking down at his body, he found that he looked pretty damn good in his clothes; they were a little different from what the style was now—but Arthur didn't look like he gave a rats arse. Kirkland was wearing a (very good looking, to be honest) vest, and brown dress pants that hugged his legs, which looked very… well, fit. Not bad, Francis guessed, and his eyes scanned up to the other's tie—green. Not a bad colour. Apparently, staring wasn't very good and Arthur smacked him hard on the head, making him swear in French ("Merde!") as Arthur huffed again, a grin on his face this time, "Serves you right for checking me out—I already _have_a boyfriend."

"…" Francis tried so, _so_hard not to laugh. Oh god. Was he serious? The ghost settled for a loud (unattractive) snort instead of a laugh, "I was _not_ checking you out, I was only checking your _clothes_ out, Arthur—and I'm sure you and your boyfriend have a very good relationship," he smiled, although it was a complete fake one; the fact that the Brit was taken somehow made him frown. Maybe it was because he pitied the other person in the relationship.

"His name is Alfred Jones," Arthur completely ignored everything the French had said and sat on the couch with a giddy smile on his face, "And he is so _perfect_, but just a little chubby, I tease him all the time about it," he laughed to himself, making Francis snort again, "But he still loves me—don't you dare tell him though!" he pointed an accusing finger at the ghost, who almost flinched at the suddenness, "If he finds out that I _actually_ enjoy his company, who knows, he'll embarrass me to no end! Even though he does that already…" he mumbled as Francis glided next to him and gave him 'the look'.

"… Arthur, cher, you have to understand that your partner would _love_ to know that you enjoy spending time with them!" the blond rolled his eyes and took his hand, pushing him to the door and grinning, actually having some fun, "Now go and ask him out on a sweet dinner date and then you can both make some sweet love, now go, vite vite!"

The Englishman was blushing. Well, more like his face looked like he had been in the radiating sun for eighteen hours. "M-Make sweet love? You're such a pervert!" he pushed the other away and fixed his vest, stuck his nose up in the air snobbishly, and grumbled, "I can show myself to the door, thank you very much—and I'm going to ask him on a date, just because I want to and not because I'm actually listening to your rubbish!" he twirled to the door and opened it, giving one last glare at the ghost, then left with his bag and phone, dialling for his lover, still crimson.

Once the door was closed, Francis sighed and looked up to the ceiling, frowning now. That was strange. Didn't he just help someone and make them _actually_ listen? Then why did he feel so bad. It was almost even… felt like regret. Something was wrong with him. Francis shrugged it off and looked at the closed door, smiling to himself sadly. He wished he had someone to hold. Mm, he was probably just jealous of the Brit, for having a lover. Francis nodded to himself, then mumbled under his breath, "Mm, just jealous, nothing else."

Lying to yourself wasn't very hard to do.


	3. Changes

Chapter 3

Francis had to admit, he was getting a little worried. Okay. A lot worried. Arthur, his new so-called-roommate, was undoubtedly, M.I.A. Okay. Kirkland was on a date, he'd be okay, and why do you care anyways! He's been an asshole to you and you care for his _safety_? You should be thrilled if a bus hit him! Wait. He's helping you get to heaven. And you won't have to stay as a ghost—so you have to like him. Or it would just be living hell—the door opened.

The ghosts eyes widened and he floated towards the door, slightly afraid that it would be a burglar, but the only person that came in was a giddy looking Brit. Oh. Seems like Francis' advice worked then. "… Best sex I've ever had," Arthur said dreamily, but then glanced at the (still human) ghost, and frowned, "_You're_still here?"

"Oui. I am."

"Well, since there's no one else here to listen to my melodious voice, you'll have to do," Kirkland chuckled smugly, and then continued, "I actually didn't need to tell Alfred how much I enjoyed his company—I just told him about how he had lost weight!" Francis' jaw dropped just a centimetre in disbelief while the Brit chattered away, "Then he pounced on me and then we fucked like there was no tomorrow. Wondrous, isn't it?"

"C'est magnifique," was all that the other, taller blond could say; although, he had actually really wanted to blurt out: you must've never had good sex if you've never been with a Frenchie! But he'd get punched if he had said such a thing. Thank god Arthur didn't sense the sarcasm in his voice. That would've gotten him smacked too.

"But then I went home, and I saw you," Arthur said with a disappointed sigh, staring at him with a frown, "And you ruined my happiness!"

"I didn't even do anything," he replied with a snort.

"Prick," Arthur spat, frowning even more. Did Francis just laugh at him? Snort at him? Same thing! Bloody wanker—did he even know his place? Arthur was living! And Francis was not! Who had the first priorities here—he grumbled to himself under his breath.

Francis rolled his eyes. This wasn't going to work at all. Good for Arthur that he had a boyfriend (who was presumably mental—dating a man like _this_) and that he had a wonderful job—wait. Francis floated closer, walking was too much work, and asked him, "What do you do for a living, Arthur?"

Suddenly, the Englishman almost… froze for a second. And thought to himself. Was this really a job? Writing? For magazines? For formal letters? … For newspaper ads? It hurt his dignity when he thought of… well, all of this. Arthur sighed, not noticing the strange stare that Francis was giving him, and ran a hand through his hair, "I'm a… Freelance writer," Francis almost winced, and he continued, "I like it, so don't you _dare_ pity me. I just… wish they would actually read something I wrote," the Brit pouted (cutely, Francis noticed, then shook his head at the thoughts).

The taller male watched Arthur sit on the couch and Francis followed him, sitting down next to him. Maybe he could charm the Brit so that they would be on better terms. And Arthur didn't seem to want to leave the couch either, which made him a tad bit surprised, "… I don't pity you. I find writing actually very hard, so I admire that you are even able to write," Francis smiled sweetly at the other, the words actually coming out of his heart, "I was a therapist when I was still alive. And… I think writing just reflects on how you are in life. How you write, and what you write about, is something linked to you, and it interests you—so if other people can't appreciate it, it's their problem."

Arthur's gaze turned to the other blond, looking a little surprised, and actually had a light blush that was barely visible on his skin, "… I guess you _can_ be smart sometimes. _Sometimes_," though Arthur was smiling, almost a little shyly, his lips pursed together, as if he was trying not to smile at all. The Brit finally realized he was smiling and he blushed furiously, eyes tearing away from the French to the wall next to him as he fidgeted. Why was he suddenly nervous? This was crazy—he was a ghost—the clock struck twelve. Francis' eyes widened considerably and he spluttered, "A-Arthur—look away, don't do anything— Merde!"

He really should've looked away. But curiosity killed the cat. And killed his eyes as well. The sight after twelve at midnight made the blood drain from his face; Francis was /rotting/. His body was deteriorating in front of Arthur. Francis couldn't speak—he was turning into a ghost again, and this was the… well… ritual type of thing? He had to die every single time again. Even though he was dead. It was quite troublesome, to be honest—and finally, Francis screamed in pain, collapsing onto the ground, completely limp and losing colour, legs disappearing and mist replacing them. Arthur was trembling as he kneeled down and spluttered, "O-Oi, y-you okay? F-Francis?" he felt tears running down his cheeks as a shaking finger poked through the limp body and he felt his heart lurch, "F-Francis? D-Don't do this—i-it isn't funny!"

But the French didn't move.

Arthur let the tears flow freely as he sat next to the body, which looked like it was… just… leaving. "… Y-You're such a bad roommate," he insulted the body, then continued bawling, "I-I hate you—Don't just do this! After you finally did something _useful_!" then his jaw dropped when he saw the Frenchman float up, eyes opening as the ghost cringed, now looking at his hands that were a shade of grey; ah, he was a ghost again.

The ghost stared at the other's tears, then immediately went down to give him a hug, only as tight as he could go without going through him, then whispered, "I am _so_ sorry."

Arthur seemed to melt in the other's arms and he allowed his eyes to close as he shook you head, "You're a git. B-But don't do that… again…"

I told you not to look—was what Francis was saying, but seeing Arthur like this broke something inside of him and he nodded, "I promise. Now… Just go to bed," the French gave him another squeeze, then led him to his own bedroom, tucking the still sobbing Brit in bed (which on the very next day, the Brit would deny everything) and gave him a cold peck on the forehead, staying there until he had finally calmed down, and also finally slept.

There would be a lot of explaining to do tomorrow; merde.

AN: Heeeere is chap 3 XD and I don't think it was that bad either! Thankfully XD Hopefully you guys like this chapter and look forward to the next chapter! Til next Friday then, lovelies xD


	4. History Helps

Chapter 4: History Helps

"You are such an arsehole," Arthur snapped, chomping on a scone, that was suspiciously purple for some strange reason, "You are the arsehole of arseholes. You're the shite in the arse—"

"I get it, I get it, you're eating, don't say such things," the Frenchman replied, back to being a ghost again, "And I already said I was sorry for last night's event, I told you not to look."

Finishing his (demon) scone, Kirkland glared a million daggers at the ghost, who almost flinched at the sight, and snapped, "You're the one who—Who just—You are such," the Brit closed his eyes and took his cup of tea, giving it a small sip as his gaze turned to the wall, "… It's not my fault."

… I never said it was your fault. The ghost floated towards him and sat down in the chair next to him, scooting a little closer, "I'm sorry, alright? How many more times do I need to say it until you finally forgive me?" and continue insulting me, which will probably never stop, "… I really, really am, so sorry," his pale hand went to Arthur's head, touching his soft blond hair, stroking it only for half a second. His hand was pushed away immediately, obviously.

"Don't touch me!" Arthur sneered, finishing his tea, eyebrows furrowing together as he frowned, very angry, and very disappointed. How could Francis just _do_ that? Yesterday was fucking terrible. One, it scared the living shit out of Arthur, but he would never, ever admit it out loud; and two, it hurt him. Kirkland had no idea why. It had literally made him feel like his heart was being squeezed, and it _hurt_. It just _hurt_ so bad—Arthur hated it.

So did Francis. "… You didn't seem to mind me touching you yesterday," he muttered under his breath, floating to the other side, knowing that the Englishman had heard him; well, his expression certainly told that he had heard.

"You—Imbecile!" the Brit's face turned a dark shade of red as he threw a fork at the French ghost (which, obviously, went through him) and he growled, "I-I never asked you to fucking hold me—you did it without me asking—I could _sue_ you! I could say you touched me inappropriately!"

"I'm a ghost."

"No one gives a flying fuck!"

"I'm dead too, if the ghost part didn't help you realize that."

"Shut up! Why are you so irritating?"

The ghost rubbed his temples, sighing in annoyance, obviously thinking that the other was irritating instead. Jesus Christ. "… Okay, I'm sorry, let's not talk about this anymore, okay?" Francis said, teeth gritting together as he tried to keep his voice at a monotone sound, instead of a hiss; it seemed to work when the Brit huffed, crossed his arms and mumbled something that sounded like 'fine'.

Francis didn't even know how he could get to heaven. At this rate, he'll be forced to go to hell after killing Arthur and laughing afterwards in delight. He blamed the Brit for making him even have these thoughts. C'est horrible. "… Arthur? Can we talk about how I'm going to move on please?" just be polite, don't initiate any kind of argument, maybe you'll get him to actually not insult you.

"Fine, git," nope, the insults just kept on coming, "But I'll need to turn on my computer and research on you—if you really got shot, you should be in the news. Somewhere," Arthur mumbled, walking to get his Macbook and turning it on, quickly going on Google to search up the other's death, "… You had a wife?" his eyes widened at the screen, seeing a picture of a crying woman; and Francis' eyes widened as well.

"… I know her," his finger went down to the bright screen, eyes tearing up, "I just… I just… I forgot her name—don't tell me her name," he quickly added as the Brit opened his mouth, then closed it, "… The only thing I remember about her is that… I never loved her. I had to marry her for—well, parents and all. But… my family never allowed for me to go to anyone I /actually/ found attractive or I actually _liked_," the French sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Seeing that he couldn't exactly say something wrong (since it would really be… well… fuck, he could be soft sometimes), Arthur settled for, "… Why?" his eyes turned to look at the other's finger, which was still touching the screen, until his finger pulled away, and Francis answered, "They never accepted the fact that I was gay. Always said it was a phase I was going through as a kid. I don't mind what they think really, they're both dead," and most likely in hell, "And I always had _girlfriends_. And by girlfriends, I mean hookers."

Arthur looked disgusted. Hookers? Really? Was he _that_ desperate? "Why hookers? Didn't you get a real boyfriend? A _real_ one that you can fuck _without_ paying?"

"I couldn't get a boyfriend. I didn't need one at that time. I was already engaged, due to my parents, and the hookers didn't make me pay so much—it was easy to get them in bed—If I ever had a boyfriend, my parent's would've disowned me—and just having sex is alright for me," the ghost hissed out, looking pretty damn upset about his life. Or when he had lived.

The British male had actually shut up. But that didn't last for long. His lips were curled into a scowl as he stood up from his seat, glaring at the French, "Jesus—you're just a user! You use sex, and you fuck everyone you can see—no wonder you're still a ghost, this is punishment for using people and then throwing them into the damn trash! If you even _tried_ to have someone, you might've actually gotten to heaven, you son of a bitch!"

"It's not that easy, when you don't even know how love is like!" the French yelled, an obvious expression of hurt splayed on his face, "I-It's so hard when you watch other people go out and all you have are hookers and parents that _hate_ you— " Francis suddenly stopped talking.

Oh my god.

They both turned silent. Oh my fucking god. They needed to smile. They finally figured it out. But there was a teeny tiny problem. Just a wee little one. The thing that Francis regrets was that he had never learned to love. They both knew now. And were both silent.

Because the only person he could possibly fall in love with was Arthur.

"… Oh shit," Francis whispered out.

This was _not_ good.

AN:

Hello. How are you all doing. I have half of my midterm exams done. Well, more than a half, actually, three more next week, and I'll be free. XDD okay, well, still a week of school after that, then holidays FFT

And I just have to say—I'm feeling great. (If you guys can see, I'm just trying to make the AN longer fft). I have a huge crush on this guy, and we used to not talk at all, and now we hang out all the time, all my friends are just pairing me up with him, and seriously, he's the sweetest. He put his scarf on me just cause he saw me shivering. Aw. /died inside when he did that XDD

Yea. Life is good. 3 Hope you readers have a good day too! And hope you like this chapter 3

Reviews are love!


	5. The Breakup

Chapter 5: The Breakup

Oh. No, no, no, no. This couldn't be possible. The Brit paced around as the ghost floated around, both thinking about the exact same thing. Francis had to fall in love with Arthur. If the other wasn't such a git, this would _actually_ be kind of romantic, but Francis was the git of all gits, so unlike romantic, this was completely horrifying. "I can't be the only option," Arthur mumbled to himself, still pacing around as if nothing was wrong—wait, pacing usually meant something was wrong. So damn this shit, "… Bloody hell—No, I can't be the only option!"

"Apparently you are, so come here and give me a kiss," Francis answered sarcastically, though his already pale face seemed even paler than usual. N-Nothing wrong.

The shorter blond groaned and covered his face, shaking his head, "No! Nonononono! This can't be possible! Please tell me that there's another—option—please!" Even Arthur had to _beg_. He had to _beg_ for this to stop. He should've chosen another house. This wouldn't work at all. And—and—Arthur already had a boyfriend! Right! He should say that! "I have a boyfriend!"

"I know," he smiled, almost a little sadly, and he sighed, "… This'll never work. I won't be able to… I'll never get to leave…" Francis gulped down a large lump, and he blinked back tears. But they just came along. And immediately fell from his eyes.

Arthur's heart wrenched with guilt and he groaned, "I-I bet there's another way—Just… You… You're human now, aren't you? Can't you go out—wait. No. You can't go out. But people can come _in_!"

The taller blond blinked. Well. That was pretty damn stupid. "Oh, of course, they'd _love_ to come in and see a ghost."

"Oh, god, you're so stupid," he groaned and continued, "I meant, when you're 'human', you can go on 'dates' with people that you like! Now tell me what your type is," he looked very determined, and even had a pad of paper and also, a blue pen, "Tell me so I can write it down."

Well, you pretty much fit the standards, seeing that you're shorter than me and you have a nice ass—lose the eyebrows and I'd fuck you—actually, keep the eyebrows; I'd still fuck you. Shouldn't say that. Would get punched. Or maybe I'd die again, "Just try and find someone with a nice ass; I like nice asses," Francis replied as the Brit rolled his eyes, even though he _did_ write down: Nice ass preferred.

"I meant personality," he smiled softly, suddenly reminded of his cheery American boyfriend, and he sighed a little dazedly, "Like… energetic? Fun? Sweet?"

"Good in bed?"

"Oh, dear lord, you're hopeless."

Francis floated next to him and took his pen, quickly scribbling on the other's paper: Has to be okay with letting a ghost fall in love with him. 3

"Well. At least you have nice writing," Arthur eyed the cursive on the pad of paper, pursing his lips together, slightly jealous of the other's writing style—damn, "And I'll just find someone that you can… look at for a while. And… you know… fuck. We'll figure this out."

"… Oui, we'll _try_," the ghost sighed and ran a hand through his hair, adding another two words reluctantly, "… Thank you."

Arthur almost blushed. _Almost_. Jesus, why did Francis suddenly have to be so sweet? He was a playboy! Play—ghost! Damn. It really made him… well, his heart _did_ skip a beat. Fuck, he was acting like a young school girl. And he had a boyfriend. Yea. It was probably because Alfred _always_ said 'thank you' no matter when, so Francis saying that just… reminded him of Alfred, definitely.

It had to be that way.

"… You're welcome," he murmured back, heading to the door immediately after responding, and he turned to the French ghost, saying, "W-Well, I'm going then! You better be thankful when I come back—and get loads of dates for you!" he squirmed slightly. Why was he suddenly nervous?

Francis floated closer. And closer. Then his lips pressed onto the other's forehead, the other's oh-so-warm-forehead, and he mumbled, "I am thankful, Arthur."

The Brit had frozen. The kiss to his forehead made his cheeks burn with embarrassment, despite the coldness of the other's ghostly lips, and he pushed the taller blond away weakly (damn it), "F-Fucking twat— I-I'm going!" he stormed out, rubbing his forehead, though it wasn't in disgust. It was more like… what the fuck did Francis do? Why the fuck did he do it? The thought was still in his head as he hopped into his car, driving to the closest gay bar—which wasn't very close at all.

After parking his car, he stretched and fixed his hair. It had been a while since he was in a gay bar, to be honest, and he didn't exactly know how this… bar would work. Strippers? Lap dancers? Roofies? This all coming back to him made him a little bit scared. The Brit blinked and entered the club, immediately greeted by music and half naked dancing men. … Didn't seem so bad now. Arthur had the sudden urge to dance with the (half naked, half nude, fucking sexy) men, but he had a mission to do and… well; it was time to get some numbers. Trotting in with his nose held high like a smug person, he peered around, trying to find some good looking fellow somewhere, oh, and he had to have a good arse too. "A-Ah?" he let out a shaky breath when something literally ground against him.

What. The. Fuck.

He turned around and glared at the man, who was—whoa. Hot. Hotter than Alfred—shite! He shouldn't have come here… "Hello, sexy," the mysterious (and hot) man replied, grinding against him as the foreign hands went on Arthur's hips, rubbing up and down as the Brit blushed furiously—oh god he had an accent—"Out finding some fun?"

"N-No, I'm here for—Oh bloody hell," he tried to pull away and he insisted, "I'm here to help my… my friend find a new… p-partner…"

"British?" the taller male breathed into Kirkland's ear, causing him to involuntarily shudder, eyes fluttering lightly, "Even sexier," and the second later—the man had planted a passionate kiss onto the Brit, making him freeze in the motion, but his eyes slowly closed as he almost leaned closer, trying to gain more and more and more—until he remembered that he had a boyfriend.

Oh shiiiiite.

Pushing the other away, he rubbed at his lips hastily and ran away, near the door, now panting (from the running) and gulping, "Oh—Oh, I'm not helping Francis— Fuck," he groaned and ran a hand through his hair, feeling as guilty as ever.

Apparently his luck was in hell today, because he was suddenly greeted by a hand on his cheek. Oh, no, not gentle at all. It was a slap. And to make it even better, Alfred F. Jones, his loving boyfriend, had slapped him. Arthur's eyes widened with shock as his cheek stung with pain, and he looked up, gaze filled with hurt, "W-Wh-What?"

"I never thought you would cheat on me like this, Arthur," the American hissed, hurt and betrayal shown in his eyes, "Seeing you fucking make out with that other guy—and you even dry humped him! What is your problem—and who is this Francis guy! Jesus Christ—You..."

Tears flowed down Arthur's cheek, mostly from the pain on his cheek, and he tried to save his breaking heart, "N-No, it's not—I didn't want to kiss him—please—"

"We're over, Arthur. It was nice knowing you," his, now ex, boyfriend snapped at him, storming back into the club.

He stood there for at least a minute, in shock. The stinging had started to fade, but the pain inside of him was unbearable. Oh god. This was all Francis' fault. He had lost his perfect boyfriend, just because he was helping a ghost. Holy fucking shit. The tears started flowing again, and he sobbed to himself silently, trudging to the car with wet cheeks and a stuffy nose.

He blamed Francis for all this.

Once he was in his car, he drove somewhere else. Not home. No way. He was going to get drunk. Drunk as hell. Nearest bar to this gay club, somewhere near, and somewhere with hard alcohol that could get him so drunk that a police officer would have to bring him home.

Then he was going to kill Francis.

AN: Latest chapter right here XD hopefully you like whats going on, but obviously, Arthur doesn't XDD and hopefully this story is still interesting ehehehehe and I hope that you guys like this! /loves on all the readers and subscribers and reviewers and shit fft

Read and review, my lovelies /sends hearts and cookies


	6. Proximity

Chapter 6: Proximity

Oh, his head stung. It didn't help how the police car was bouncing up and down—weren't these things supposed to be safe? Arthur let out a groan as his head bumped at the window still, a sharp pain going through his body. He couldn't have drank so much that he had passed out and… well. At least he got the part right that the police would have to drag him home. Or well… drive him home now. "Jesus—stop the lights," he croaked out, voice a little strained from all the crying he did. He really hoped he'd be okay. Okay enough to punch someone's after-life out of them. Fucking bastard—cost me my boyfriend! Sniffling to himself, he wiped his eyes and looked out of the window. Fuck; that hurt his eyes. He looked back at the floor and started reminiscing about the good times that they had; him and Alfred, just together. "… He said he loved me," Arthur whispered to himself, not caring if the police officer could hear and he sniffled again, wiping at his eyes.

Finally, they arrived at his house, and the police officer turned around to stare at the silently crying man, "… Sir, we are at your house, and please, please try not to vomit on one of the managers in the club, we have already cleaned it up for you," that would explain the acidic taste in his mouth, sick, "I'm sorry, but you'll have to get out of the car now," the man in the uniform added, dragging him out of the vehicle and the police officer rung the doorbell, making a worried ghost, who was now completely human (and dressed, if anyone was wondering), open the door.

And get punched right in the face.

Well, that sure hurt.

The police officer's eyes were wide with shock as his gaze bounced from Arthur to Francis, and he spluttered, "W-Well, I'll leave him to you. Good day," the man quickly thrust the Brit into the French's arms, and literally ran away before he could get hit.

"… Arthur? Are you okay?" Francis asked with an eyebrow cocked up as he dodged another punch, the whining Brit now sobbing again, pushing him away and quickly trudged to the bathroom, taking the mouthwash, and pouring it in his mouth, gargling, then spitting it out on the floor. Ah. Missed the sink.

"Arthur! You're crying!" the French insisted, floating next to him, earning him a slap on the cheek, making his eyes go wide in shock, then his gaze turned to the Brit, "… Why would you _do_ that?"

The tears were still flowing down his cheeks rapidly as his face was red with anger, "Y-You asshole! Alfred—Alfred _broke up_ with me because of you! Because I was helping you find someone—he thought I was cheating and he broke up with me! I hate you, fucking go to hell!" he would've screamed it out to him, but his voice was cracking from the tears.

There wasn't any time to ask about the break up, and Francis felt terrible. "… I'm so… I'm so sorry," he remembered how the other had talked about him and his boyfriend; just… it had been the only actual time seeing him being honestly happy about something. And now Francis had broken it all. "… I'm really, truly sorry," he murmured again, suddenly pulling the Brit into a reassuring hug, feeling him break down in his own arms.

Oh the guilt.

"I—I hate you… I hate you so much…" Arthur choked out, his hands balled into fists that punched the other's chest weakly, "… How could you do this to me…? I… I really loved him—he loved me too, he said so—Jesus…" his hands stopped punching the Frenchman and he clutched onto the ghost's shirt, using it to wipe his tears as he very slowly relaxed into the hug.

"… I'll get you to bed," Francis gave him a comforting kiss on Arthur's forehead and he held him up, helping up, to be exact, and carried him to the other's room, gently letting him down on the bed, but there was a problem. The shorter blond's hands were still on his shirt, clenched onto them just like a baby. This would've been adorable if the French hadn't broken the Englishman's relationship.

Arthur was a strange person. When he was upset, he never wanted to be alone. When he was a child, he had been bullied a lot (since he believed that ghosts and fairies and other magical beings), and he would always cry by himself in the corner of his own room, and the fairies would be there with him. They were the only beings that kept him from running away from home, and other unspeakable things. And now was one of those moments. Tugging onto Francis' shirt, he sniffled and mumbled, "… Stay."

The Frenchman's eyes widened. "Don't you hate me now?" he hated you already from the beginning, Francis.

"… Fucking stay or my hatred for you will grow."

"… Sounds like a good enough reason."

Bonnefoy sighed, almost regretting that he was doing this, and he crawled under the covers to meet with the Brit, and he (unwillingly of course…?) snuggled closer, one arm going around the other's waist as Arthur sniffled onto the other's clothed chest. Even Arthur was forgetting the hatred for a while now, and had also (unwillingly of course!) curled closer. "… Thank you," was heard.

The taller blond blinked and looked down at the Brit, staring at him as the other looked up as well, staring back. This should've been awkward as hell but strangely, it wasn't. Francis unconsciously leaned a little closer as he mumbled softly, "… Still drunk, Arthur?"

"…" The shorter blond was apparently still drunk, since he showed the other a grateful smile, and laughed in a small voice, "I don't even know," the tears flowed down again.

Thumb going to the other's cheek, Francis wiped the tears away, cooing lightly at him, "Shh, shh, it's okay, it's okay," he smiled softly and the other looked up at him again, eyes watery from the tears, and his nose red from all the sniffling.

Oh dear lord. Arthur was trying to kill him.

Francis leaned closer and his hand cupped Arthur's cheek, pressing his lips onto the other's own lips, noticing that he tasted very much like the mouthwash that the other had. The Brit's eyes widened and… his head stopped hurting. So Arthur didn't mind the kissing—well, if he wasn't drunk, he would've slapped the other, and he would've gotten drunk—… then this would happen again, and… Well, this was terrible. "Mm—Francis," the shorter blond groaned into the kiss, arms now around the other's waist, pulling him a little closer.

It felt strange, to be honest, and the other was slimmer than the American, but still very sturdy, and he… he smelled nice. Was that weird? Arthur sure felt so—but then something flared up inside of him when the tip of the French's tongue suddenly trailed over his lower lip, then his upper lip, causing an obvious shiver to go down his spine, and his pink lips parted to welcome the wet muscle.

This wasn't going to be good, Francis _and_ Arthur thought to themselves as the kiss turned even more heated, and the shorter blond groaned lightly, the small bulge in his pants growing at the sensation, until Kirkland pushed the other away forcefully, gasping for air—right, Francis thought, he was alive; he needed air. But as soon as the other pulled away, their lips met again in a passionate exchange of tongues, the French now on top of the British male, sucking onto his lower lip harshly, biting onto it gently, Francis' hands now onto the other's rear, touching both of his ass cheeks playfully; Arthur gasped and blotches of red appeared onto his face as he said, "W-What are you doin— O-Ohh…"

"You won't remember this tomorrow, you're completely drunk, let me do what I want to do," the ghost breathed into the other's ear, tongue licking at the side of it, only gently, and almost a little nervously.

It had been a while. So _long_. So long since he had ever even had sex—wait, they couldn't go _that_ far now, it would be a while to explain why his ass would hurt—oh god, this was all a mistake, they couldn't go on. But his body. Oh—Arthur's glorious, and oh-so-hot body… The British blond moaned as Francis' hips rolled forward to grind against him, hissing in pleasure, "A-Arthur—Mon dieu," the French's hands tugged onto the other's trousers, quickly taking them off, feeling the other's, now naked, cock brush against his own pants, which were also, quickly tugged off.

Both of their nude erections touched and they both gasped in harmony.

Oh mother of all things good.

Francis' hand travelled lower, to grip Arthur's member, and his own, then started pumping both, groaning at the feeling, squeezing as well; the Brit let out a shaky breath, "N-No—Don't do this—Francis," his eyes were watery, and his teeth biting onto his lower lip, "P-Please—This won't satisfy you—Oh god," the eyes widened and Arthur's cocked twitched, sending a small vibration to the other's own cock, "O-Ooh, I can't hold it in much longer—F-Francis—Stop!" he sobbed, body trembling at the squeezes and harsh pumps that the French was doing.

And finally, with a loud cry of pleasure, and a name, Arthur climaxed, and once the Englishman did, so did the French, right after he felt the other's semen hit his own cock as well. But it didn't feel good at all. How could something feel so right… then feel so _wrong_?

He blamed it on Arthur.

Francis remembered what the Brit had said before he had come.

"Alfred!"

Oui.

It would be a good reason to feel like you've been ripped apart.

AN: Hey! Early update! Cause this Friday I'm going to a sleepover FFT. Oh, me and my friends that pretend we're still young… /shot

Hopefully you guys liked this chapter! It was a little inappropriate, hehehe, but… Well… You all knew that the rating would be changed. XD. And I'm really happy about the reviews, and I'm really happy with all the hits I'm getting with this story! It makes me proud 3 3 I won't say the number though, since I'm a modest bitch. Muahahaha. Not really. XDD.

Stories will still update on Fridays!

Read and review, my little lovelies 3


	7. The Deal

Chapter 7: The Deal

He was still human. Francis was still human—this was bad. Usually, he would feel thrilled, and he'd… well… touch himself, but that wasn't very relevant to what was happening right now. It was the next morning—well, more like the morning after he had almost raped his own new roommate. Maybe he could blame it on the face that he hadn't had sexual contact (except for his own hand) for twenty years. Or he could blame it on the now sleeping British male, for being way too adorable for his own good. Groaning under his breath, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Really. Francis' heart was already in two (from last night's incident), and with the guilt surging through his dead body—this was probably going to prevent him from going to heaven, and would send him straight down to hell.

But seriously. No ghost would ever rape a living human being—unless… Unless they were _too_ desperate. This was killing him inside. Could ghosts die twice? Francis peeked down at his own body and used his index finger to poke his own scar, now covered by the fabric of his shirt, and he tried to poke hard—hard enough to penetrate—but it didn't hurt. Strange. When he hurt _himself_, it didn't hurt, but when Arthur threw something… or hurt him—it actually hurt.

How strange.

After touching his scar for another few seconds, he almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a loud yawn behind him; Francis turned his body to see the Brit, hair dishevelled and mouth frowning. "… You…" the shorter blond's face turned maroon as he stammered, eyes wide with… was that fear? Embarrassment? "… You are such—you took _advantage_ of me when I was _drun__k_!" the Brit's finger was pointing at him rudely.

Francis cringed slightly at the disrespectful point, a pang of guilt hitting him again as he looked down to the floor and murmured a small apology in French, "Desole."

Well, that was unexpected. … Arthur had expected blames—loud, rude blames to him, maybe a few swear words here and there. Apparently, there weren't any. This confused him. Usually when he had a one night stand (when he was drunk like batshite), the Brit would scold the person who had fucked him—and they would flip him the bird, some might even spit on the ground, and then leave. Francis was different. He really _was_ sorry. And that was strange. Since Arthur remembered that he himself had kissed back. That brought an immediate flush to his cheeks, and he gulped.

"… It's alright," he murmured, rubbing his temples in defeat.

The French's eyes widened at the 'it's alright'. Wait. Arthur must be joking. The Brit he knew would throw the nearest object at him, and laugh after seeing him wince. "… Seriously?"

"Don't ask anymore, I might change my mind," he snapped, the git in him appearing again as he cringed. Snapping and sneering made his head hurt. Fucking karma.

Of course he didn't forgive the French ghost. It was all his fault. All Francis' fault that he was drunk, all his fault that he was cold, all his fault that he was getting warmth, all his fault that he had managed to get him aroused from an amazing kiss. No. Not amazing. Terrible lips. Too soft. Too wet. Too… God. He felt guilty for liking—no, loving the kiss way too much than normal. This wasn't like him. He used to only love Alfred's kisses—now he had another option. Shite.

As the Brit walked to the kitchen to grab himself some tea (and some aspirin, if he could find any), the Frenchman ran a hand through his hair, pondering about how strange Kirkland had acted. To be honest, it was almost as if he was bipolar ("FUCK! NO FUCKING ASPIRIN— GOD," Arthur yelled in frustration, ruffling his own hair in pain, chugging down his warm tea)—definitely bipolar. Francis' gaze turned to see the angry Brit, trying to see if he needed some help, but his eyes were glued onto the other's bum. … Looked so good. Francis groaned to himself in confusion, knowing that he was completely attracted to Arthur's _body_, but not his personality.

He was too much of a dick.

After a few hours of swearing, temple-rubbing, stretching, and sighing, Arthur Kirkland stepped out of the kitchen, the third cup of piping hot tea in his hands. He finally felt a little better, and he trotted to the couch, sitting down gingerly, smiling softly when he thought it felt very comfy. Slowly, Francis glided towards the Brit, his mouth slightly open to say something—but he closed it once he sat down next to the confused looking blond, who asked, "… What?"

Better now than never. He sighed and looked at his roommate, seeing that he was feeling better now. "… Since I have to fall in love with you—I was meaning to ask…" he breathed in, gaze now staring at the (hothothothot) Brit, "Will you give me permission to… Oh this is corny—to fall in love with you?"

The Brit snorted.

Trying to gain his dignity back, Francis frowned and started stating out the reasons why he should get permission, "Well, it has to be _real_ love, I'm pretty sure—and it won't bother you, _I'm_ the one who needs to fall for you, not you, since you hate me so much—And I'll get to heaven quicker. Then I'll forget about falling for you… I think."

Arthur stayed silent for a while. One, yes, what he had just said was probably only allowed to say in the most sappy and most disturbing soap operas. And two, unfortunately, Francis had a point. He wanted Francis gone. That would mean some lovey dovey shite. But he knew that he would never fall for Francis. Too French. And too dead. There wasn't an option to love a ghost, when you have living people walking next to you. "You _do_ know that I won't fall for a wanker like you, right?"

"… Nice to know you think of me like that, but yes, yes I know that."

Arthur rolled his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair (a sight that the French found strangely attractive), and muttered, "… Try saying 'I love you'; maybe it'll work—we don't know if it has to be real or not."

The taller male stared into the Englishman's eyes, a slight glint in his own eyes as he sighed and said the three words, "I love you."

Oh. Oh, he didn't expect to have a mini heart attack. When your heart stops beating for a second and you feel dizzy—didn't that mean you were going to have a heart attack? (Of course not, Arthur told himself, that's just stupid)—but oh, did it give him a 'heart attack'. He also felt like puking from the flips that his stomach made.

Sadly, Francis wasn't gone, and was still on the couch, sitting there like the git he was.

What an arse.

"Nothing happened," way to point the obvious, "So that means it has to be real. So do I get permission?"

Crossing his arms, he pouted childishly, thinking to himself—his face flushed crimson at an abrupt thought. "… Damn," he swore under his breath, scooting slightly further away from the French, who looked at him with a purse of the lips, saying, "… Yes?"

Kirkland took a deep breath and sighed, his eyes now scanning the other's body. Not bad. … He sighed again. "… Since I want you out of my house as quick as possible… and since I'm single… I'll allow you to… date me. Don't get the wrong idea!" he saved himself when he watched the French smirk in delight, "I'm doing this because I'm single and because I want you _gone_. Forever. … And I might allow kisses from time to time," he added, mumbling softly to himself, face red as a tomato.

There was a sudden moment of shocked silence, then the French's arms were around the Brit's tense body, giving him a tight embrace with a beam; he was very, very thrilled, obviously. "Oh, merci! Merci, merci, merci!" Francis' lips curled into a smile, and he snuggled closer, "And I'm sorry for taking advantage—I'll make it up with the dates!"

Arthur melted into the hug involuntarily—but when could ghosts smell so good? Didn't the dead rot? And stink? Francis was different. He always smelled like fresh bread, and wine—he'd get hungry if he stayed too close to the French. The Brit finally realized why he felt guilty. "… Thank you," Arthur mumbled.

The ghost looked confused.

Rolling his eyes, Kirkland started to explain, "Despite how inappropriate your actions were yesterday night," Bonnefoy cringed sheepishly, "… It had calmed me down and… I felt better after it."

"…" Francis' arms were still around him, as Kirkland noticed a second ago, and now the git's lips were pressed against his forehead. Very gently. Sweet and gentle. It knocked something out of his body. He didn't want to think too much about that (amazing) sensation. "You're welcome," the taller male whispered against the other's forehead, "And I would gladly do it once more, if you wanted me to."

Pushing the other away, he wanted to snap at him for being stupid—saying something so inappropriate in such a tone—but then he stared into Francis' eyes, and his heart flipped at least sixteen times; Francis was serious. Fuck. Arthur pulled away from the hug and nodded silently, his front teeth biting onto his lower lip. "… I'm going to get myself cleaned up."

Bonnefoy smiled to himself as his hands rubbed together in thought, eyes following the Brits rear as he moved away. This was going to be fun. Or hard. Depending on how Francis saw it, really. And yes, yes this was going to be fun.

And Francis already had a plan.

Bring it on.

A/N: Newest chapter! Here! Hopefully its good XD there's no smuttiness in this chapter, so if any of you readers were wanting some smut, Imma so sorry. I hope that you guys liked this chapter, since well… I guess it's a pretty important chapter, I really dunno XDD Up to you guys! Reviews are love, my lovelies—keepthemcomingXD

Read and Review!

Chapters update each Friday!


	8. Chords

Chapter 8: Chords

Francis had asked him on a date. Well, Arthur knew that this was going to happen sooner or later—but he didn't understand why it had to be a week later. The dates didn't quite work with him. Anniversaries and shite. But that would be later—and he could get drunk on that day. But today, he had a date to go to. Thankfully, the French was human today, so at least when Arthur was unhappy with his date, the item he would throw at the blond wouldn't go through him. He hoped it would hurt too. But now he had to get ready for a date. And Francis had told him to dress up normally, since he couldn't leave the house anyways, so… dressing up nicely for a dinner outside was a definite no. "… Francis?" he peeked into his bedroom, where the French said that he would be.

Oh god.

Was that a guitar?

That was a guitar.

This was going to be a disaster, Kirkland already knew.

"… What's with the guitar, Bonnefoy," the living male asked, eyes showing an obvious gaze that said 'I don't give a fuck', "You can't be singing me a song."

"Why not?" Francis said, head tilting to the side playfully, a teasing grin on his lips.

The Brit's eyes widened a considerable range, and he let out a groan of disappointment, "You _can't_ be serious," Kirkland brushed his shoulder a little and sat down next to the French, putting some distance between them before finally relaxing.

"I'm going to sing you a song, Arthur," Bonnefoy stated with a bored expression, licking his lips to moisturize them a little before he had to sing, and he continued, "So you better be happy! I'm a pretty good singer, mind you."

He couldn't help but grin slightly at the other's reaction, "Depends—I'll see about that," he answered, teasingly, and almost in a flirty tone. No. Definitely not a flirty tone—why would he be flirty? Just because it was a date? Yes. That would be a good excu- reason.

The French then took a deep breath and stared at the guitar. It better work goddammit. Cause he found it in the attic, and he had played around with it—seeing that it sort of worked, was in tune, and… well, it was the only musical instrument that worked in the whole house. Taking one more deep breath, he started to sing; it had been almost a little shaky with nervousness at the beginning, but then it became much more… much more smooth and… Arthur was in awe. He never knew that ghosts could sing, let alone play the guitar, but he never showed it in his emotions. Unless his face was red. Unless the taller blond could hear his heart pounding as if he had just finished a marathon. Unless—Oh god, he was fidgeting. Please let the song end soon.

And it did.

Apparently the song was only two minutes long, and strangely, Arthur wanted to hear more, but his ego didn't allow him to even lean closer to the French to even give him a hint. Not gonna happen. After Bonnefoy sang out the last note, he put the guitar to the side, being extra careful with it, glad that it had actually worked. "So. How was it?" he asked with a hopeful smile, a small smugness added to it as well.

"Horrible," the Brit commented, crossing his arms, "French is terrible. And I didn't even understand what you were singing. If you _must_ sing, do it in English," he grumbled. Of course he was lying. The ghost's voice was sweet and he loved how the beautiful language just rolled off his tongue. French wasn't very hard, but Arthur had a hard time pronouncing some words. And yes. He had been learning French. Well… Trying to learn French. Harder than it seemed. But… It's a beautiful language, and it will forever be beautiful.

Not that he would ever admit that.

Francis' eyelid twitched in slight annoyance. Fine. Say whatever you want. "You sing a song then! See who's better—and it'll be fair then," he pouted, crossing his arms, imitating the British's movements.

Flushing immediately, Arthur shook his head frantically, smacking the ghost with a frown on his face, "No! No, no, no! I will _never_ sing for you."

And with some more begging, insults, and groans of disbelief, Arthur finally sang. The British anthem. It had been a long while since Francis had laughed so much. Not at his voice—it was adorable—and actually very in tone, which was a surprise; he was laughing at the song choice. Romantic, Arthur, so romantic. "Shut up!" Arthur whined, looking very, very embarrassed.

Francis did not shut up at all. His laugh grew even louder, and he clutched at his stomach, snickering as the shorter male smacked him, then punched him weakly, his cheeks puffed up a little. God, could Arthur get even cuter? The French pulled the blond close into a tight hug, glad that he had flesh today—and he smiled into the other's shoulder, saying, "Mm. You are so cute."

"… I have more man in me than you do," Arthur pouted, though he had melted into the comforting—and very gentle hug; Francis' grip softened as he chuckled and teased, "You make good jokes, cher," and kissed his forehead gently.

Grumbling to himself, Kirkland rubbed his forehead onto the other's chest, while Francis watched in amusement, "You want another kiss?" he asked, a small grin on his face.

"No, you twat, I was rubbing your DNA back onto your body, where it belongs," he retorted.

The Frenchman laughed again and leaned forward to press his lips onto the Brit's own, causing Arthur to yelp, and pull away, "What was _that_ for!"

"… Weren't we supposed to put the right DNA where it belonged?"

Arthur spluttered and smacked him again, "Stop being so corny!" he groaned in annoyance as the French ruffled his hair, laughing softly at the comment, then commenting himself, "How did you find the date?"

"It wasn't even half a date!" Kirkland exclaimed, glaring at the French with a scorn.

With a disappointed expression, Francis laced his fingers together, trying not to look _too_ sad, "… What's a real date like?"

Arthur decided to be mean and went with the 'you can't do shite' method, and said, "Well. To start with—I say that dinners outside are wonderful. So are night walks. Very romantic and very nice. Watching a movie. Very nice too," he chuckled as he watched the other's facial expressions turn even more disappointed.

"Oh… I'm sorry I'm dead."

Pursing his lips together, the British male felt quite guilty and his finger went to the other's arm, poking it lightly to get his attention, "It's good enough for a ghost."

Francis smiled and scooted closer, giving him a grateful look, "… Can I get another kiss?"

Turning pink almost immediately (he blamed it on the feminine side of him), Arthur shrugged and waited for a moment before answering, "… I-I'm not doing this for you—"

But Francis kissed him right before the Englishman could protest, and Arthur's hands fisted the sides of the French's shirt, gripping onto it harshly as his face burned in embarrassment. The taller blond's own hands went to the other's hands, and guided them to his own neck—Arthur made a small noise that resembled a whimper or a gasp, and his arms willingly wrapped around the ghost's neck, finally allowing himself to relax into the kiss. The French's arms slowly went to the other's waist, pulling him closer, only giving him a small rub that conjured an audible whimper, making Francis' desire for him grow rapidly.

Arthur could only think of how Bonnefoy's amazing hands gave him small massages on his waist—but then a lust-torture device popped out. Alfred's face was now plastered in his mind and he pushed the other's body away, suddenly realizing that he needed oxygen, and he gasped, "I-I never—Said that foreplay—was allowed!"

Winking playfully, Francis purred into the other's ear, "Who said it was foreplay? It's just kissing."

Well. Arthur really did feel like a girl. Either he was getting too soft, or Francis was a hypnotist. He thought that the second option was probably the correct one. Hands still wandering up and down Arthur's sides gently, almost as if he was asking for permission, even though he was doing it; Arthur couldn't stop feeling his heart pound in his chest at the touches.

They brought back memories.

Not of Alfred though.

Of the night he was dumped, completely drunk, and touched.

Face burning crimson again, he pushed Francis away. Hard. "N-No," he whispered, his eyes showing almost a slight glint of fear, and Bonnefoy's eyes widened in surprise. And hurt.

"… Sorry, I shouldn't have," he replied in a small voice, and a forced smile, pulling himself away before he could be pushed again.

God; I ruined everything, didn't I? Arthur couldn't help but feel slightly guilty as he scooted even further away, making Francis' jaw clench, and the shorter male muttered, "It's alright."

"… I had a good time," Kirkland finally admitted, gaze turning to the French to give him a genuine smile; Francis' frown slowly turned into a smile as he leaned forward to press a kiss onto the top of the Brit's head, inhaling his scent for a second.

"Me too."

Chuckling lightly under his breath, Arthur stood up from his seat and fixed his slightly crumpled shirt (from the touching) and he took a deep breath in, "Well. It's late. Thank you for the date," he said politely, for once, and turned to the door, opening it, head tilted to the entrance, "… I need to change and sleep. Good night."

Taking the hint, the ghost stood up and nodded, "I won't bother you then, Arthur, I'll see you tomorrow then," he stepped to the door and outside, but Kirkland didn't close the door yet.

It was almost as if he was expecting something.

"Bonnenuit."

"Good night."

The door closed. Arthur sighed. At least it was a nice date.

AN:

Hi. I have a really bad headache. Hello. So this AN will be short. I actually wasn't very happy with this chapter, but I needed a date chapter XDD so hopefully you guys liked it loads 3

Reviews are love!

Till next Friday XD


	9. Memories

Chapter 9: Memories

The 30th of November. The day they had met. It had been very sweet. Last year of college, in the Theatre Arts room, they had met. A few words were exchanged really, mostly awkward statements like: "I'm sorry, but that coffee's mine." And "Oh… What if I took a sip already…?" And the unforgettable, "No wonder it tasted more like tea instead of coffee." The two men were already both feeling very uncomfortable, and both faces were equally red.

But one turned even redder after a sentence.

"How about I buy you a drink? Since I already took a sip—a few sips… Drank half of your coffee."

And that was how Arthur and Alfred got their first date. Or their… before-the-real-first-date date? Yes. That sounded more accurate. Sighing to himself, Arthur took another bottle of wine, checked the date, and put it in his trolley. That was the fifth bottle he was going to buy. Seemed enough. Time to buy food that's drowning in sugar, butter, and fat. Yes. Everything was going according to plan. It was time to mourn for his break up. After four years. Four whole years. It seemed like yesterday.

_ "Since you _did_ practically finish my latte, I suppose you will have to make it up with another latte. Shall we leave for Starbucks?" Arthur said, willing his blush down; this man was _very_ attractive. Even if he had some baby fat still on. Didn't look like a baby at all though._

_The taller male let his hand be shown, since it was in his pockets just a while ago, and shook Arthur's hand in a friendly manner, giving it a small squeeze, "We will. But first—I'm Alfred Jones. Sorry for drinking your coffee," Jones said sheepishly, his other hand rubbing the back of his neck._

_Polite too. Alfred knew his manners. "I'm Arthur Kirkland, Mr. Jones, it's nice to meet you," Arthur smiled softly, squeezing his hand as well, and he let go—but Alfred didn't—instead, he said, "Please call me Alfred."_

"… _Then you can call me Arthur."_

"_I would've called you Arthur even if you didn't want me to." _

_American bastard was flirting with him! … Not that he minded, honestly. Despite the small annoyance in his voice, he couldn't help but let his lips curl upwards, "… Cheeky." _

_A grin was now stuck on the taller males face as he chuckled and gave him an affectionate pat on the back, "We're going to Starbucks, there's no time to talk about cheekiness. Unless we have some more time _after_ the Starbucks."_

_Cheeky indeed._

_He flushed and Kirkland's eyes widened. "… You're hitting on me," he finally realized, after all the flirting; Arthur didn't mind, to his surprise._

"_How did you figure _that_ out," Alfred rolled his eyes playfully, letting a small wink be shown to the shorter blond, who spluttered, face turning crimson, "But yes. Yes, I'm hitting on you."_

_The Brit straightened himself and fixed his vest, suddenly much more nervous than he was a few seconds ago, "… I-I knew that."_

"_So will you allow me to take you on a date?" _

_The important question needed an important answer. And the shorter male could only squeak out a small, "O-Oh. Kay?" _

_The American beamed and took Arthur's hand, slowly bringing it up to his lips, giving the (now stiff and having a shocked look on his face) Brit a small look of sultry as he pecked other's skin gently, "Then. We're going to Starbucks. But not just for a drink. For a date too," he laughed as Kirkland pulled his hand away bashfully, sticking it in his pocket. _

_And that was how they had their first date._

Touching his own cheek lightly, he could still feel the sting of the harsh slap. Arthur winced. Finally, he went to the cashier, paying a large amount for the bottles of wine, and the packs of candy. The cashier glanced at him funny, and mumbled something that sounded like, "Movie night?" but Arthur didn't respond. He was still down in the dumps. All because of Alfred. Stupid, stupid American. That he still had feelings for.

It was time to get home anyways. And how convenient; Francis just _had_ to be in flesh today. Maybe he'd get a hug. Or a kiss. Or maybe another slap to match his first one. After getting the bags of wine and sweets, he sighed to himself and trudged outside, looking both ways, trying to get a cab. Apparently, fate wasn't with him today. Even the skies hated him. Finally, after another half an hour, he checked his watch—for Christ's sake, it was eleven in the evening already. In one more hour, Francis would turn back into a ghost. Not that he cared.

But he still told the driver to go quickly.

For some strange, selfish reason.

That he would never, ever admit out loud.

It only took them five minutes to go back to his house, and he couldn't help but smile. For no reason, of course. Arthur paid the driver, mumbling, "Keep the change," and he sighed once the cab quickly drove off.

"You're late today," Francis stated as Arthur trotted in, acting as if nothing was wrong when he continued, "And what's with all the wine? And is that candy? That'll give you cavities, cher."

"Shut up, I can drink and eat whatever I want to," he took the bottles out and put them onto the closest table (thank god it was the living room one), and he also put the candy on the table. Opening the bottle, he started chugging it down; letting out a content sigh after a few gulps, then popped a few pieces of candy into his mouth. Strange, the taste of wine and candy put together. Chewy candy, actually.

The Brit sat down, trying to get himself more comfortable as he ate and drank, trying not to think about unnecessary things, like Alfred F. Jones, his hot ex-boyfriend—"Fuck," Arthur finished the bottle of wine, face now flushed.

"Is something on your mind that you're not telling me?" Francis said softly, sliding onto the seat next to the Brit, looking at him with an expression that showed how he was slightly worried.

"I'm not feeling good today," Kirkland answered after opening a new bottle of red wine, downing some, then sighing, "… It's none of your business, so—hic! Let me drink…" he continued.

Oh. Arthur was getting a little tipsy already. But he had a reason… Hopefully it was reasonable. "… Alright. You can drink, I won't stop you. Hope you feel better," his hand went to the shorter male's back, rubbing reassuringly as he kept on drinking.

"D-Did you… Know!" yup, definitely tipsy, "That! Today! Yep, today! I met… Alfred! Mm…" ah, so _that's_ why he's so upset, "B-But Alfred—hates me now! A-And… hic! Like... I like… I like him a lot… B-But we're oveeer—B-But… we've had good times… H-He gave me a ring once! I-It was so pretty… I threw it away though—Didn't want him to find out… I kept it…"

This was getting pathetic, Francis told himself mentally as the Englishman kept on drawling out his sentences, hiccupping between words, and sniffling. It made his heart growl. If it could, it would. Feelings of jealousy—it had been a while since he felt this way. In a completely strange way, he found it nice. It was finally a different type of jealousy. It was for a person. Not for the fact that they were still alive. It made him feel more human.

"Arthur," the Brit glanced at him groggily, and Francis looked away, "… What do you think of me?"

"Hah!" Kirkland laughed and let a hand go up to tug at the ghost's hair lightly, gazing at him, "Y-You know… You really… hic! Shouldn't look so goddamn attractive… all the time! Pisses me off…"

Francis couldn't help but snicker at the answer, willing himself so that he wouldn't sound _too_ smug, "But I can't help looking like this."

"You make me! Forget… Al! All… the time!"

Letting out another hiccup, Arthur chugged down some more wine, and Francis chuckled. Would this technically be called 'taking advantage' of the British male? To be honest, Francis was just asking questions, and Arthur was just answering. Bonnefoy could ask when he was sober, and Arthur would still answer. Nope. Not taking advantage of him. Just asking more personal questions.

"So. Do you like me better—Or Alfred?" he had wanted to ask this question from the day that the shorter male had said that he would allow Francis to date him; but he was afraid of the answer—still confident though.

"…" he watched the other lick his lips as he thought, then as he dreaded, the answer was a single, harsh, word, "Alfred."

The ghost winced at the sound of the demon's name. He bet this Alfred guy was a pretty nice guy. Pretty good looking too. And apparently, he had won the other's heart too. "Why?"

"Well, it's not your fault."

Francis couldn't help but groan in disbelief, "Jesus, Arthur, you _hate_ me!"

The other man sniffled and rubbed at his teary eyes, "W-Why do you think that way? I—I don't hate anyone—okay, I hate the man that kiss-kissed me at the club—but I don't hate you. Everyone thinks I-I hate them! A-Alfred—Matthew—Now you—Argh!"

Who _was _this Matthew anyways? He'd have to ask later, but now, Francis' job was to comfort the drunkard—"… Je suis desole, cher," he mumbled, leaning forward to kiss him gently on the lips. He tasted slightly strange. A little _too_ sweet, maybe.

Arthur couldn't help but smile at the comment, and he leaned forward, leaving just a whisper between their lips, and the Brit leaned forward, pressing their lips together, eyes closed, hands now on Francis' cheeks, almost making him feel like he wanted more—then the doorbell rang.

"Maybe it's the pizza I ordered," Arthur mumbled as he pulled away, making Francis whine with need, responding, "Just ignore it! And why did you order pizza anyways!"

Shrugging, the Brit stood up—almost tripped—and went to answer the door, swinging it open as Francis just floated to the kitchen, not wanting anyone to see him—then he heard a loud gasp.

"A-Alfred?"

AN:

Hello! Early update XD because my birthday is this Saturday, so I'm hanging out with my friends for two days straight (they're coming over for a sleeeeeepover whoop) Turning… older XD. Hopefully I have a wonderful birthday, and I hope you guys like this chapter! I'm not exactly a USUK fan, but I thought this chapter wasn't too bad. Aw yea. Reviews are love! Updating next Friday! Bye!


	10. Steps to Heaven

Chapter 10

His heart stopped. The British couldn't keep his eyes off of the taller man. Alfred F. Jones looked like he had run a marathon. He was panting, and his cheeks were flushed, beads of sweat were dripping down the side of his forehead—god, how could he look _so_ good even like this? Arthur gulped and took a step back, shoulders hunching forward, suddenly feeling scared, "… W-What are you doing here?"

The Frenchman paled, an abrupt sting of pain shooting through his body, "F-Fuck," he breathed out in the smallest voice he could conjure; it was twelve. He was going through his transformation. In the middle of _this_?

Francis' body started to hurt—now more than ever, and he had to bite his lower lip to stop himself from crying out loud—he had to close the kitchen's door. Or else, someone would hear him. But he couldn't. What if Alfred did something wrong to the shorter blond? Using much more strength than he should have, Francis turned his body around to see what was happening—his teeth gritted together as he watched the American's hands go to the Englishman's shoulders.

Then Alfred kissed him.

The ghost's eyes widened, and his body gave a little shake from the pain—but he couldn't do anything. His body kept on losing colour, and his heart broke into shards when he saw Arthur kiss back. At first, he was glad that the Brit had stiffened at the kiss, but now… he was just relaxed and… both of his hands were now tangled in the American's hair, and he was kissing back. That traitor was kissing back. Then Francis felt furious.

No, no, this isn't supposed to happen. Arthur's body is _his_. They broke up. Arthur was now dating him. The Brit was officially cheating on him. Francis let out an animalistic howl, his body shaking more and more as he howled once more, making the others pull away, Arthur looking pale.

"So. You got yourself a dog to replace me?" Alfred said softly, leaning away to caress his ex's cheek, "I'm slightly hurt, but I'll be alright once we're back together and happy again."

The Brit looked at the clock, completely ignoring the other—and then he paled even more; Francis. His gaze turned to the kitchen as he heard another howl. Then he was reminded about what the American had said. "W-What? You _slapped_ me, don't you remember?" he said, hurt, now rubbing vigorously at his lips, "J-Just go, Alfred."

Francis panted, now feeling slightly better that the Brit had rejected him, but the American hadn't stopped, "I'm sorry, okay? Really, I didn't mean to—I was just… angry. Then I saw who you- who was kissing you, and I realized it was some man whore that was just trying to steal your money. And I'm sorry. I promise. I—I miss you," the American said genuinely, taking both of his hands, "I want you back. And… I know you want me back too, Arthur."

Pulling slightly away, Arthur flushed in embarrassment and shook his head, "J-Just… please…" he didn't have anything else to say, and Francis almost thought that the Brit would be smart and chase him away.

Still, Alfred hadn't given up. "… If you're seeing someone else… and if he makes you happy, then I'll back off. If he makes you happy. I'll give up."

Arthur had to think for a moment. Only Francis needed to love him. He didn't need to love the French himself. So he answered with, "I'm not seeing anyone else."

Francis closed his eyes, feeling two trails of tears flowing from his eyes. He couldn't watch this anymore. He was going to faint sooner or later. Hopefully sooner. Alfred took a step forward and kissed him once more, "Then you _have_ to take me back because you know you want to."

He couldn't lie to himself anymore. Yes. Yes, he wanted Alfred. He wanted him _so_ much. But he was lying to the other. He _was_ seeing someone now. But… that person was dead. Francis wasn't even half a person! He was _dead_. Arthur took a step forward and nodded, staring up at the taller American male, "… My answer is a yes. But you—please don't ever slap me again. It really hurt," he grumbled, a sudden feeling of guilt going through his body as he pressed his lips to the other's own.

And Francis fainted at that second. He thanked god. Because he really felt like crying. How could the other betray him like that? Such a _traitor_. Such a fucking _traitor_. He really was glad that his body's functions didn't even work at this time. It hurt him to even think about what they would be doing right now.

Speaking of what they were doing right now, Alfred's lips were now on the Brit's neck, causing the blond male to gasp in delight—god, it had been _too_ long. His arms wrapped around the other's waist and he suddenly jumped up, legs also wrapping around the other's legs—"Man, you've gotten lighter, have you stopped eating?" Alfred said in a worried tone as he carried him upstairs to the bedroom.

"N-No, I've been eating fine," Arthur answered softly, burying his face in the other's neck as he breathed in the other's scent—it had been a while since he had smelt his lover. Yes, Arthur knew it sounded corny, and possibly strange, but… To him, to know your lover's scent was like knowing who he was. And how clean he was. Shaking the thought away (since Alfred was clean, for an American that like fast food so much), the Brit ran his hand through the American's soft, blond hair.

God, he missed this.

Then, why did he feel so guilty?

Arthur didn't have any more time to ponder about his guilt covered heart—because he was pushed onto the bed, and his eyes widened. Wait. Were they going to—oh, those were lips on his neck. Very, very nice lips indeed. The Brit's breath hitched at a sudden nibble and that confirmed his wonders. Well, he was going to get laid tonight.

Oh, the _guilt_.

But it felt so _good_.

The American kissed down his neck, leaving puffs of air to hit the slightly rough skin; Alfred always loved how Arthur would shave, but they would just grow back so quickly that it made him grin. Wrapping his arms around his lover, the Englishman breathed out lightly, legs, hesitantly, going to wrap about his hips, tugging him closer to grind against the taller male. Alfred hissed in pleasure at the rubbing, and allowed his hands to slide down Arthur's chest, feeling small pokes as he slid down the other's already hardened nipples. Oh, that made Kirkland's brain turn to goo in only a few mere seconds.

Being so close—he was _sure_ Alfred could at least hear his racing heart that was probably going to give him a heart attack later. He shouldn't joke about that—"O-Ohh…" Arthur's mouth opened to let out a moan as Alfred's fingers pinched both of his dark coloured buds, and his back arched to allow the other more access to his body. This was amazing—and this brought back so many memories—and, humiliatingly, a lump formed in the Brit's throat. Oh god. He wasn't going to cry in the middle of foreplay. But his body was trembling. In anticipation. So Alfred knew what happened.

Kissing back up, the American smiled softly and brushed a few strands of hair away from his lover's face, "… Something wrong, Artie?"

"N-No… it's just…" he sighed, breathing hitching once more, thinking of what he really thought, "… I missed you… A-And I love you."

"Arthur…" Alfred gave him a gentle kiss to his lips, to show how much he genuinely cared, "I love you too, and I won't ever leave you again," he whispered back, kissing his lips once more, nose nuzzling the other's nose as well; just a small Eskimo kiss.

Well, that did it. Tears slowly slid down his cheeks as he let out a choked sob, and he held Alfred closer, pressing a deeper kiss, and he muttered onto his lips again, "I-I love you."

The taller male smiled and kissed his tears gently, saying, "I know," Alfred gave him a squeeze and kissed back down to his chest, pressing open mouthed kisses to his left nipple, flicking his tongue out to tease the already hardened bud, making the Brit gasp and squirm in anticipation.

Arthur knew that he was going to be—well, fucked, literally. But he didn't even care—He would never be able to get, or even fell such love, from the French. He was sure. W-Wait, why was he even thinking about the ghost? "A-Ah!" he whimpered lightly as he felt the American's talented mouth on his growing bulge, and he covered his mouth at the embarrassing noises, and pouted when he heard the other chuckle lightly, "S-Stop teasing, Jesus Christ," he scolded the other, using his hand to smack the taller's head.

Said taller male continued to chuckle, and he grinned, looking up, "No, I'm just so glad. I'm so glad that I can still have you," he slowly slid Arthur's trousers off, and kissed the obvious bulge once more, making the Englishman whine once more, bucking up his hips.

This felt amazing.

Francis rubbed his temples as he woke up from his black out, and gulped down the lump in his throat. Fuck. He could _hear_ them. What the hell was their problem? "Merde," he sniffled and wiped at his eyes, finally knowing that he was actually crying. Like a fucking teenager. What was wrong with him? And this was hard for him. Just hearing them upstairs, and his mind running wild—he actually wanted to… well… stab Alfred the dick in his face.

Yes, he had decided that the person he hated the most, was most definitely, Alfred F. Jones.

Gritting his teeth, he sighed and wiped at his eyes again. Then his heart stopped. Well, he really never had his heart beating—but he was shocked. Why did he hate Alfred so much? The American never did anything to him in general. He only hated him because he was touching his Arthur. And when did Arthur become _his_ in his mind? Francis felt tears dripping down his eyes again. "… Non, it can't be right," he touched his own cold cheeks, and trembled.

Oh god.

He was falling for Arthur.

Hard.

Which meant that he could go to heaven.

AN: newest chapppppter here you guys go. Hopefully your Valentines were wonderful! I'm still single XDD, and me and my friends just hung out the whole day, being… single and epically awesome. So I'm fine with it. XD. I know that a lot of readers will probably hate this chapter, but this had to be there so that the story will work XD

And this is the end of the first part of the story.

Whoooooaright.

I know, it really makes me happy that I actually wrote so much fft. There might be a break now, since I would like to write much more before I post the first chapter of the second part, which will still be posted in this story. Thank you for reading until now, honestly, and it really makes me glad that my readers love it. Thanks for all the love, and all the awesomeness.

This story is NOT DONE. Just so that you guys know. But it will be on a slight hiatus, so… wait patiently? It'll be better. I promise. More drama, more (oohlala), and even more. So thank you! 

Read and review, my little lovelies!


	11. The Morning After

Chapter 11: The Morning After

What was he going to do now? He literally… He couldn't say it out loud. If he said he loved Arthur, he would definitely go to heaven. So Francis had to watch his mouth. Pursing his lips together, fixed his hair in front of the mirror, and chuckled lightly to himself, despite the strong belief that if a ghost was in the mirror, people wouldn't be able to see it. Idiots, he thought to himself, smiling charmingly at the mirror, and he continued to primp his hair, then he sighed. If only Arthur thought he was better—it was so obvious that under all that hate, the Brit liked him. But only as a friend. Well, maybe a friend that he sort of disliked. Francis sighed once more.

Finally, he made his hair look perfect, and he leaned back, stretching lightly, then slouched his shoulders, another sigh was coming out of his mouth—"Should stop doing that, would get wrinkles. Even though I'm dead," he snorted humourlessly, one more—yes, a sigh—slid out of his mouth just like that.

"… How are you doing, Bonnefoy," Arthur stepped into the bathroom, seeing the ghost, who nodded at him curtly, replying, "Tired. Apparently you are too, after all that loud sex last night," he pursed his lips together as his stomach gave a sickening lurch at the thought. Where was Alfredick?

Having the decency the flush in embarrassment, Arthur moved to slap the other's shoulder, but then stopped when he realized he would just go through the ghost, "It wasn't _that_ loud…"

"Really, even when I had _passed out_, I could still hear you both," he muttered, hoping that the Englishman could hear the words that escaped his lips.

"Don't be so depressed," the Brit retorted before starting to brush his teeth, and he quickly finished, spitting out the white foam, and gurgled the water—then said, "I was thinking, since I'm—Well," taken now, "… I mean, since I couldn't get you a date from last time in the club, I was wondering if you would like to go clubbing. With me. And Alfred, of course."

"… You forgot I couldn't go outside, cher," he sighed, and stretched once more, staring at the British male.

"… You've never tried…?" Arthur really wanted to at least… do something for the Frenchman. He didn't want to be the cause of—He didn't want Francis to stay. Of course. Since if he stayed—Arthur would rather have _no_ confusion. He didn't like confusion.

Francis shrugged, opening his mouth to say something—then he heard a loud, "Artie, have you seen my boxers? They seem to be missing!" it was Alfred. Still here huh. The morning after. Bonnefoy's chest ached.

"I-I don't know! You find it yourself!" Arthur yelled back, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

Then there was silence.

Very, _very_, awkward silence.

And the one to break it was the ghost, who whispered, "… I cannot let him see me. Seeing a ghost in the morning might not be the greatest thing to see— …" he let out a small chuckle, then continued, "… And I'm glad," I hate him, "That you guys are," I hate him _so much_, "Back together," I wish I were alive, "… Congratulations," and with a gentle peck on the Brit's forehead, Francis smiled and floated out of the bathroom, quickly leaving to his own… little sanctuary in the attic.

Arthur closed his eyes when the other left the room, and winced to himself. Oh, the guilt. How many times had those three little words swam through his thoughts? More than there should be. Then he felt arms slide around his waist, and pull him close—his eyes shot open, staring at the mirror in front of him—and why did he feel disappointed?

"Morning. Found my boxers," Alfred practically purred, and Arthur couldn't help but smile at the sound, and he replied, "Look at you, glowing and all. You look like an idiot."

Laughing affectionately, the American used his nose to nuzzle the other's neck playfully, "You know you love it," he teased, and kissed the spot that he could reach with his warm lips, "I love you."

"… Love you too," Arthur ignored the sudden sting in his chest, and craned his neck to press a kiss onto the taller male's lips; the stinging disappeared instantly.

Alfred pulled away after he gave a playful nip to the other's lower lip, and he sighed, making Arthur scrunch up his nose, "Brush your teeth, you sod."

"Didn't seem to be complainin' when I was kissing you."

"… Shut up and just do as I say, Alfred," he chuckled and pressed a kiss onto the American's cheek, just for good measure.

Alfred did what he was told.

And once he started brushing, Arthur smiled softly and left the room, looking both ways—then he whispered, "… Francis?"

No one answered.

"Alright then," he huffed, voice still only a tad bit louder than a whisper, "Dick—" "Ish somefing w'ong?" Alfred called out, foam dripping out of his mouth as he turned around, hearing a voice.

"N-Nothing! Don't talk with your mouth full—Of toothpaste. I'm going to go make some breakfast. And some really strong tea," he called back, muttering the last five words to himself as he trotted downstairs, stepping into the kitchen, opening his tea cupboard.

"Boo."

"BLOODY—FUCKING HELL!" Arthur screamed, almost falling backwards, "W-What the—why are _you_ inside the _bloody_ closet!"

Francis shrugged, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, "Je ne sais pas. I was bored in the attic," the Brit was fuming, so Francis added, honestly, "And I missed you."

His face turned crimson, and he spluttered, "S-So you scare me?"

"Oui."

"… Oh god, move," the Englishman glared daggers at the Frenchman, who quickly floated away, and Arthur took his tea, and stormed to get some boiling water. He also put bread in the toaster. Too lazy to make anything else.

Quickly making his favourite tea—Earl Grey, of course—he plopped two sugar cubes inside, and a dash of milk, "So. Still staying here? You _do_ know that Alfred should be coming down sooner or later."

"I like spending time with you. And I've been meaning to tell you— Arthur, I,"

"Is that fresh toast I smell? Cause I'm huuuungry!" Jones stretched, stepping into the kitchen, wrapping an arm around the still faintly pink, and very stiff Brit, "I heard you scream—I assumed you spilled tea all over yourself," he snickered.

Francis had left just in time. Quickly going back into the cupboard, which was now closed with a loud bang, and Arthur turned to his lover, grinning awkwardly, "… Y-Yea. Spilt some tea. Toast?"

"Toast would be awesome," Alfred didn't find the grin awkward, he found it endearing instead, and he gave the Brit a peck on the nose, then took the bread from the toaster, fumbling a little—"H-Hot!"

"Of course it's hot, it just came out," Arthur said, rolling his eyes, which were now glancing at the cupboard.

Stupid ghost. Stupid ghost that's in the stupid closet. Stupid ghost that's in the stupid closet that can't finish his stupid fucking sentence. Now Arthur couldn't even concentrate on what Alfred was talking about. The only thing he could see was that his mouth was full. Of toast. Yuck. Anyways, what _was_ Francis going to say? Seemed important. Taking a sip of his tea, he sighed in delight. Yum. … Fuck. Even tea couldn't get his mind off of it. He shouldn't be caring. Why should _he_ care? Francis was a ghost. Probably just wanted to say how his body was ten shades of grey. Definitely.

Jesus! What the bloody hell did he want to say?

Calm down, Arthur, it must be something stupid, just drink your stupid tea—"Are you listening, Artie? You look slightly pale, did ya know?" Alfred asked, finishing his toast, and also his orange juice, "Are you sick? Is your butt hurting—oh, you're not pale anymore."

"D-Don't say such indecent things!" Arthur scolded, face now red as he put his hands on his bottom, wincing as he gave his cheeks a small massage, and Alfred chuckled, standing up to show that he had already dressed, and the Briton's heart skipped a beat, seeing the American dressed so… dapperly, "Where are you going?" he asked, wondering why he didn't notice the other's attire until now.

"To work, it's a Friday," he smiled softly, walking up to the shorter male, and planted a sweet kiss onto his lips, "How about I bring you out to dinner tonight? Like a date?"

Yes please.

"Sorry, but I have something to do tonight," Arthur answered, returning the small kiss, then pulling away to murmur, "Editing."

The American wasn't very good at hiding his emotions, and a sudden flash of disappointment was shown to the Englishman, but the other quickly hid it with a shrug and a casual smile, as he said, "Aw, well, I'll call you then. I'll give you a very nice dinner date next time then. And I could maybe cook for you! You could come to my place next time. And— Ugh, god, I gotta go, can't be late, or the boss will kick my ass," Alfred whined and gave Arthur a quick squeeze and a kiss on the cheek, "Love you! Bye!" and he ran out the door, leaving it open.

Sighing, Kirkland stepped to the door, closing it, and once he could hear the click, he turned around, leaning against the now closed door. He wondered why he had said no. And had lied almost instantly. Fuck, he didn't have anything to edit! He could've been on the stupid date—and he said no. And he had no bloody clue.

"Finally. It was getting pretty hot in that cupboard—You okay?" Francis floated out, blinking a little as he saw the other leaning against the door, "… You said no to Jones. I'm surprised."

"Oh really," Arthur answered nonchalantly, shrugging as he went to the kitchen again, taking his now warm tea, and continued drinking as the French spoke, "… Well, I'm glad you're staying so that I won't be alone in my ghost form."

Oh god.

Oh _god_.

Now he knew why he had stayed.

AN: HELLO WORLD, I'M BACK FROM THE DEAAAAAD- well, actually, I'm still tired as fuuuuq. But hi all my readers that have been trying to kill me because I didn't update. I actually have written until chapter 13, and chapter 14 is in progress. I'm going to try /hard/ to really update each… Uh… Sunday now! Wheeeeeeeeeeeee. Friday's are booooooooring to update on now XDD. Hopefully you guys liked this chapter, and I actually really like the next two chapters, cause they make everything go together and gadfklasdlfk;asldfcoolstorybruh.

Have a good day and remember to review if you liked it! The reviews KEEP ME ALIVE. asdkfsl

Till next week! /dashes


	12. Father

Chapter 12 : Father

"Oh, right," Arthur finished his tea, and stretched, ruffling his own hair as he glanced at the floating being, who was staring at the mist coming out of the teapot with much interest, "You said you had something to tell me."

Francis' body stiffened and even his mist stilled for a second, he inhaled deeply, and sat down on a chair, just to seem more… well, he didn't know. But it seemed like the right moment to sit. So he did. The Frenchman breathed in again, and then said, "I'm not one to beat around the bushes… So I'll just say it."

"You're beating around the bushes right now."

"Shut up, I'm trying."

"You shut up!"

"No, you!"

"_No_, you!"

"Oh, mon dieu, I think I'm actually falling for an _ass_!"

"I! Am not! An arse—Wait. Whot?" and now his British accent was even stronger, and his eyes were even wider than before.

The ghost's cheeks tinted a little darker in its shade of grey, and he sighed, running a hand through his hair, "… I think I have a… slight _thing_ for you."

"… You must be shitting me."

"I swear I must _hate_ Jones for _some_ reason."

Arthur blinked and his head tilted to the side, expression going from shocked to quite confused, "… Why would you hate him?"

Because he has stupid glasses. Because he has that stupid curl thing on the top of his head—seriously, what _is_ that? He has that because he's an idiot. Did you forget that he slapped you? That he broke up with you? That he hurt you so much you went drunk and you kissed me. Did you forget? Did you forget when I touched you, you trembled, and god, you wanted it. You knew it. But stupid _Alfred_ got in the way. I hate him because you called out his name. I hate him because he's taller than me. I hate him because he has bigger muscles—no, wait, I hate him because he's fat. Yeah. I hate him because he's _fat_. Why don't you like me? I'm much leaner. And I still have muscles! Very nice pecs too, please—I hate him. So many more reasons. What else?

I hate him because he loves you.

I hate him because you love him.

The French pursed his lips and gulped down all the words he had wanted to say, and just said, "I don't know."

"… That is the _most_ stupid reason anyone has hated anyone," Arthur replied, his eyes narrowing as he crossed his arms.

"I'm sorry then! I just don't like him! I don't like the way he's all over you—Ugh," he shuddered, closing his eyes shut just so that the images of last night wouldn't go through his mind.

It didn't work.

Looking down at his finished breakfast, Arthur muttered under his breath, "… That doesn't mean that you have feelings for me."

"… Remember, Arthur," the Brit's head snapped back up to stare at the French, and he continued, "… This is _supposed_ to happen. I'm supposed to like you. I'm glad how it's going on easier than how I thought it would be. … You don't need to care, just let me… Just let me be, really."

Biting onto the insides of his cheeks, Arthur mumbled, "… You don't know anything about me. You honestly have no right to fall for me. At all. Once you understand—my life at least, then… I'll leave you be. But right now… I don't even feel flattered."

"… Does this mean that you'll tell me about yourself for once?" Francis retorted.

"I would _never_ tell you."

"Then I will _never_ leave."

"…"

"I know. It's pathetic, but… You know," the French gulped and straightened his back on the chair, staring into the blond's surprisingly glimmering eyes, "… You really have to tell me."

Breathing out deeply, and closing his eyes shut tightly, he nodded and poured himself another cup of tea once he opened his eyes again, "… I will. I definitely will. Just… you can't stay here forever. Where can I start…"

"Childhood?"

"… I guess," Arthur shrugged as the memories overflowed into his brain, and he started to tell his story.

"_Mummy, can we go eat ice-cream today?" Arthur asked, tugging onto his mother's sleeve as she looked down at him with a sweet smile and she nodded, answering, "Of course, sweetheart, let's go to Ben & Jerry's, alright?" _

_The young boy of only seven beamed and whooped, cuddling closer to his mother as he giggled happily, following her into the large, sweet-smelling store, and he immediately called out, "Mint Chocolate Chunk, and cone please!" _

_The woman chuckled and nodded, motioning to the staff, who smiled at the child and said, "One Mint Chocolate Chunk—cone, coming up!" _

_It was the life. The Brit and his family had a wonderful life, and honestly, he really loved his childhood. With his sister, Anna, and his father and mother—and his favourite puppy, Thompson. Taking his cone of ice cream, he quickly lapped at it, his eyes shining bright as he thanked his mother with a sweet smile; his mother smiled back._

_Their life was like that. Joyous and happy, and even when they were home, it was a perfect family, and Arthur was in love with it. He absolutely loved everyone. And everyone absolutely loved him. _

"_I'm home!" his father called out as he opened the front door, and was quickly greeted with a tight hug to his left leg, and he laughed, "Artie! You seem to be in a good mood!" _

"_Mhmm! I had ice cream today! Mummy let me!" the man shared a glance with his lover, who smiled back sweetly, and nodded, "I _did_. He ate so messily—had to use two tissues!" and Arthur grinned at his father sheepishly, who picked him up with ease, bouncing him closer, "Silly boy," he said affectionately._

"_Don't call me silly, Daddy! That's mean!" the boy huffed, smacking the man's shoulder with no strength, already bushy eyebrows narrowing together._

"_I can call you silly because I love you," his father replied._

"_I love you too, Daddy," Arthur said softly, curling closer as he closed his eyes, and the man whispered to his wife, "Did he have a long day?" _

"_Not very, but he's tired, love," she whispered back, sending her husband a kiss on the cheek before smiling and whispering in an even softer voice, "Bring him to bed, please?" _

"_Definitely," he returned the kiss before he pressed a loving kiss to his sleeping son's forehead, and carried him to the bed, tucking him in once Arthur snuggled up to his pillow and sighed contently._

_It was perfect. His life was perfect._

_Until his father passed away. _

_It was when he was ten, and it was horrible. After going home with his little sister, who was only five at that time, and they had just been playing on the beach, with their shovels, and the sand—and they went home. And then he found out his daddy was gone. "Mum? What's wrong?" _

_His mother was crying. And his aunt was there too—just holding his mother as she trembled. "M-Mum—W-Why are you crying?" Arthur whispered, letting go of his sisters hand as he stumbled to his mum, quickly snuggling close to her, trying to get her to stop crying at once—but it only made the sobbing louder as the woman held her son close, saying, "I-I'm so sorry, love, I'm so sorry…" _

"_D-Daddy won't be— Oh god," she stroked his hair with shaking hands and trembling fingers, "H-He won't be coming home anymore, l-love, he-he's in H-Heaven now." _

_His eyes widened, and he was silent for a while, his sister was still wailing loudly, and he whispered, "D-Daddy's d-d-d-dead?" _

_The woman couldn't answer, and she just nodded, her son still held close to her chest, and she continued muttering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" _

_Arthur was just silent. He didn't know he was crying until his mother's trembling fingers wiped off a few tears from his cheeks. And then he completely broke down. Wailing and sobbing, the only things he could remember were that he had never felt this hurt in his life. _

"… I'm _so_ sorry," Francis whispered, reaching out to touch the Brit's hand, and gently touched it, "I don't know how it feels like, but… I'm sure it's terrible."

"I-I just… Everything went downhill from there—just… My mum had to see a psychiatrist… My sister never really understood what happened to Dad, and Mum wouldn't tell her the truth—and Anna ran away when she was thirteen. Mum had to go to rehab after that. Anna never came home. My Gram had to take care of me."

"… Arthur, I—I don't know what to say."

"You don't need to say anything. You said you wanted to know more. Here. More," Kirkland stood up, his eyes stinging, and he put down his tea, closing his eyes shut, and he pulled away from the other's hold on his hand, "And I don't feel like talking anymore. Sorry."

Apologizing? Already? This was frustrating Francis, and it was just—hard on both of them. "Arthur—Please, I don't mind, but you can just sit here—I'm fine with you just… being here…"

"… I don't need your pity," he spat.

"… Okay. It's your choice," Francis looked away.

"I'll be in my room. I need to work. On something," whatever he had, he had to do it, "See you."

"Arthur…"

"Not now. Please. Just _not now_."

Arthur put his hands in his pockets and left the living room, nose clogged up, and eyesight blurred by the unshed tears. He was in his room, writing. To his Dad.

Dear Papa,

I miss you. I wonder when I can ever see you again, really, and I'm just waiting until I die. Maybe I'll see you there. I wonder if you're watching me from up there. Dad, do you see me? Right now? Crying because of you? And because of that ghost? Why couldn't it be you, Dad? Why did it have to be some French arsehole? Pardon my language. I love you, Dad, you know that, right?

I know you can't come home now, since… Well, it's obvious why you can't come home. Did I say that I missed you yet? I'm sure that if I say it more than twenty times, I'll still want to say it.

I'm doing fine. You know Alfred? I've been dating him since college. We've had our moments, but we still love each other. Yes, Dad, I'm gay. I don't see a problem with it, and I hope that you don't see a problem too. Are you proud of me? Alfred's proud of me. I don't know about Francis, my new found friend, if I could say that.

He's nice. Annoying, but nice. Dead, like you. But still nice.

I didn't mean to offend.

I love you, Dad.

Arthur

Kirkland was sure his father wouldn't be able to read this even if he was alive.

Too many tear stains.

AN: New chap! I really liked this one XD. I mean, personal experience and all, but really, this chapter is definitely one of my favourites. And so is the next chapter XD the next one will be Francis' chapter, and I really hope you guys liked this chapter, and I hope that you'll like the next one too! Till next Sundaaaay! /sends hearts and love

Reviews are love! And thank you for all of them!


	13. Issues

Chapter 13: Issues

Francis was still at the table. And he was still staring into his tea. Well, it wasn't _his_ tea, it was the Brit's tea, actually. There wasn't much that he could do. Standing up, Francis sighed and stretched lightly, running his cold fingers through his own soft hair, and he floated towards the stairs, wondering if he should go up or not. "… Now or never," he mumbled to himself as he floated up, reaching the Brit's door, and he knocked onto it, "Arthur? It's been an hour. Can I come in?"

"Yeah, just come in," a mumble replied, and Francis smiled to himself as he floated in after opening the door.

The Frenchman sat down on the bed, and stared at the Englishman, who turned his chair and faced the blond, "Is there something you need to tell me?"

"How did you find out?"

"You suddenly want to come in. You have to have a reason to do such a thing."

Francis chuckled and blew a kiss at the Brit, "I was a tad bit worried, cher. You seemed upset."

"I feel better now," Arthur admitted.

"I'm glad," Francis replied with a small sigh.

"…"

"…"

"… You're still going to stay here."

"… Do you want me to leave?"

"… You can keep me company," Arthur replied as he stretched and sent the French a small hint of a smile.

Propping his head on his palm, Francis scooted closer and let his elbow touch the working table, which Arthur was sitting at, and he let the corners of his lips quirk up for a second, "I like keeping you company. How about we just talk today? We have the whole day, non?"

Rolling his eyes, the Brit sighed loudly, just to show his annoyance, but he nodded, and leaned back in his chair, a smirk on his lips, "Fine. Lets _talk_," he made quotation marks with his fingers, one eyebrow cocked up in amusement.

"We'll talk. But this time, it's _my_ turn."

"What do you mean it's your turn?"

"… Well, you talked about your childhood. I was just guessing that it was time to tell _my_ story."

Arthur turned silent for a moment, "… You sure you want to? I'm not forcing you. And do you even remember? It's been… how many—At least thirty years! How could you remember—"

"I don't remember their names. I just… I just remember who they _were_, and what they did, and how they were to me… And I want you to know. Because I feel that you need to know."

The other male stared at the Frenchman, who stared back, and they spent a few moments just looking at each other until Arthur realized he wasn't staring. He was _gazing_. Snapping his head to the side, he blushed and gulped; now gazing—no, staring at the wall. "… Go on then, I don't have all day," bullshite, he /did/ have all day.

"I will go on," he chuckled and pressed a kiss onto the Brit's forehead, making the other flush and push him away, saying something like: "I have a boyfriend, goddammit."

Francis smiled and continued to talk, "I'll start with my childhood, and since you only told me that, I'll only tell you about my childhood too."

"… Fine. Just go on before I sleep, wanker."

"I will, I will…"

_ The boy stretched, and curled closer to his pillow—another day had begun. Sighing to himself, Francis sniffled and reached out for his comb, immediately going to fix his bed hair; no one needed to see _that_ monstrosity. _

_Today was the day. The day that he would tell his parents and his siblings who he really was._

_The words couldn't even come out his mouth as he stared at himself I the mirror. "Dad, Mum, I'm… Merde…"he mumbled, running his hands through his now soft hair._

_It was only this morning though—should he tell them in the afternoon? Evening? He didn't know. Francis thought that he wouldn't be able to sleep that night anyways._

"_Breakfast is ready, master Francis," his maid knocked on the door, and he opened it for her, sending her one of his famous smiles, and she blushed, "Your parents are downstairs waiting. They told me to come up—"_

"_It's alright, Lucile, thank you," he pecked her lightly on the cheek, and he pulled away to reveal a girl as red as a tomato._

"_O-Oui, master Francis," the maid bowed and scurried away as the teenager sighed again. He never liked that woman._

_Or any other woman, in fact._

_They just didn't perk his interest._

_Since Francis was gay anyways. _

_The word made him shudder. Honestly, he was scared. Beyond scared. His parents might disown him. His mother won't look at him. His father might even slap him across the face. Or they might accept him for who he was. Francis laughed at loud at his own little thought. He should pack his clothes and his porn just in case he gets kicked out. _

_Definitely pack his porn. _

_Because if his parents found those out—oh, the trouble he'd be in. _

"_Francis!" he heard his mother yell, "It's already been fifteen minutes! You're taking too long of a time, my dear!"_

"_Coming!" he answered, tweaking a few more strands of hair before he trotted downstairs, already seeing his parents and older sister at the dining table, the maids putting food on the table as his mouth watered with delight, "Mon dieu, that smells _delicious_," he muttered as he sat down, placing a napkin on his lap, just like the others. _

"_You took quite a long time today fixing yourself, dear," his mother started once she had taken a sip of her coffee, "And I'm glad. You look as dashing as usual," she complimented, and gave him a soft smile._

_Rolling his eyes, the teenager pursed his lips together and counting to ten in his head, he finally said, "… Does this mean I'll be meeting one of your friend's daughters again?" _

"_Francis, I know you don't like this, but you have to find at least _one_ girl that you _like_!" his mother retorted, her thin lips now pursed together tightly, a look of disappointment on her face as she took another sip of her coffee, everyone else on the table silent, "We _need_ an heir for the company! You know this! And yet you—you don't even _try_! If you had only listened—"_

"_Honey, we don't need to fight over this again," he heard his father mumble with a loud, annoying as hell sigh._

"_God, you guys are so stupid, we have to fight even in the morning, you all just ruin my fucking—Mum!"_

"_Stop complaining! Your father was talking to me!" _

"_Jesus Christ, maybe I should just chug down the hot coffee and let it burn my throat so that I'll just stop talking, wouldn't that be nice," his father snapped, and Francis slammed his hands on the table, glaring at his mother with all his might, and he yelled, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" _

_And they_did_. The whole table went silent as his chest heaved up and down with anger, eyes narrowed as he counted, this time, to twenty, in his head._

"_Mother. I won't like any of the girls you show me."_

"… _Why?" _

"_Because I'm gay, Mum, I'm a fucking homo, I'm a faggot, and I'm everything that you don't want me to be!"_

_The French woman paled and stilled each movement. His sister's jaw dropped, and her fork fell from her hand. His father—oh god, his _father_ looked _disgusted_. _

"_You have _got_ to be kidding," his sister broke the silence, staring at her brother with wide eyes as she leaned into her chair, a hand on her heart; as usual, the stupid drama queen. _

"_I… I need some time alone," the older woman stood up, and almost knocked down her coffee—her fingers were trembling. _

_His father had already left._

"_Have you had a _boyfriend_ yet?" his sister whispered, her perfectly manicured and fair skinned hand still touching her heart. _

_Turning his eyes at his sister, he hissed at her and glared bloody daggers, "Fuck. _You_."_

"What happened after that?" Arthur breathed out, his body now leaning close to the French's, and his hands were on his own lap, fingers playing with each other as he listened intently.

The blond shrugged and sighed softly, running his fingers through his hair as he shrugged once more, now looking at the ground as he answered, "They all pretended that it had never happened. Even when I kept on saying it—I'm gay, I'm gay, I'm gay—they just laughed nervously and brushed it off. I even then I had to meet even _more_ girls. Jesus—even worse ones," Francis rolled his eyes.

Chuckling lightly, the Brit smiled softly and glanced at the Frenchman, "That would… be terrible."

"It _was_," he smiled back, his heart skipping a beat when the other male's lips quirked up even higher.

Sighing lightly, Arthur leaned back into his chair and bit onto his lower lip, "They forced you to marry a woman though. I remember… A few weeks ago… Remember?"

Of course he remembered.

He had thought about it—but he could only remember her face. Not her name. "Yea. They just… No males allowed. Ever. That's why I always ran away. Getting drunk. Other stuff. Normal stuff that teenagers would want to do."

"… Well, you were a teenager. So it's… fine?"

"… I died when I was in my mid twenties."

"… So you lived life to your fullest?"

"Hopefully. Karma probably killed me because of all that I did."

Arthur chuckled and shrugged, "At least you're here now. And if you weren't dead, we wouldn't have met."

"…" Francis' eyes widened and it felt as if something in his body stopped.

Spluttering once he realized what he had said, Arthur flailed his hands in front of him and tried to find his voice, his cheeks burning with humiliation, "I-I-I didn't say a fucking thing! Don't you even _dare_ mention that _ever_ again!"

"And you still wonder why I like you," Francis whispered, floating closer as he stared at the Brit—he could feel the other's warmth from his cheek—"I really like you. Strangely… I like you a _lot_," he teased.

Arthur huffed, but didn't lean back, and he pursed his lips together, "Stop lying, you're such a little arsehole."

"We just talked about our pasts. I know more about you now… And still, strangely, I'm even _more_ interested in you," their faces were only inches apart, and Francis continued whispering, both of them staring now, "And… I think that… I might be…"

"Oh just shut up," Arthur whispered back, leaning forward just a few more inches, eyes closed as he pressed his warm lips against the ghost's own cold, lifeless ones.

He was _so_ going to regret this.

AN: XDD sorry for the late update, and also, I have to have another hiatus. ;A; School started again, and exams are actually really close, and I'll need to study, and stuff like that. But still. I'll try my best to update as usual as I can, and honestly ;;A;;sorrehguys.

But I hope that you guys liked this chapter!

Reviews are loved and always appreciated 3

Till next time lovelies.


	14. Enemies With Benefits

Chapter 14: Enemies with Benefits

Well. That was unexpected. A slap was what he was expecting—a slap that would just go through his face, but no. Oh _no_. He got a kiss. A sweet, loving kiss that made his insides just melt into instant goo. Francis leaned in closer, eyes closing as one hand went up to touch the Brit's warm cheek, and he caressed the gentle flesh there, knowing that the other would be able to feel the coldness on his fingertips—but Arthur let out a small noise of pleasure as the kiss deepened.

Another hand went up, but this time it wasn't the ghost's own hand, it was Arthur's own. And it was on his own chilly cheek. Arthur still had to breathe, so he pulled away, and stared at the taller male. "… I… I don't know why I did that."

"… I don't know why either," Francis breathed back, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips, savouring the taste of the Brit's own lips.

Arthur's cheeks flushed at the sight, and he gulped down a sudden dryness in his throat when the Frenchman added, "… I liked it. A lot."

"Really…"

"Really."

The Brit looked away, and continued to wonder why he had just kissed the Frenchman so quickly and so… so suddenly. Probably it was because he was so close. Maybe it was because he smelled like bread. Perhaps it was because of the warmth spreading in his chest, and the sudden increase of speed in his heart. His face flushed at the memory of the sweet kiss, and he gulped, turning his back to the ghost, though he could feel the other's gaze still burning into his back.

"St-Stop staring."

"I'm sorry. I just can't stop thinking about that. The kiss. The one you just gave me—willingly."

"That was a _horrible_ mistake and you know it," Arthur hissed, turning back to face the ghost, who was now right in his face, making the Briton gasp in surprise.

Eyes focused onto the green eyes that were now showing slight fear, Francis scowled lightly and allowed his hands to touch onto the Brit's own shoulders, and he leaned even more forward, "You know it wasn't a mistake. We both liked it and you can't change the fact that you kissed me—"

"Mistake! It was a mistake—please don't even _try_ to make this more than it could—mmngh!"

The Frenchman pressed his lips against Arthur's own once more, shutting him up effectively as the Briton tried to push him away, but Francis was keen on making the kiss as passionate as possible, and the blond whimpered lightly, hating how he sounded like. "Francis—Bonnefoy—get the _fuck_ off of me!" Arthur yelled as he finally pulled away to breathe deeply, and to also push the ghost as far as possible.

"Please, Arthur," Francis whispered, floating a little closer as he tried to steal another, but he felt a hand go through his cheek.

It was a slap.

Being in his ghost form, the Frenchman couldn't feel anything but a small pat, though he winced, "… You can do that tomorrow. Then I'll feel it."

"What the _hell_ is your problem! I finally get the man of my dreams back—and you just—you just…" Arthur gulped, taking a step backwards as he tried to think of something that the Frenchman had done.

And he just couldn't.

All Francis had done was support him and that had made him feel guilty. He was the one in fault here. It was all his fault. "It's all my fault," he whispered, taking another step back as he closed his eyes and tried hard to escape from reality.

"… I _did_ kiss back, you know."

"Do you have _any_ clue of what you _do_ to me?" Arthur exclaimed, eyes finally opening, but they were fixed into a glare, and he stared at the ghost, who pursed his lips and took a step backwards, but the Briton was now taking steps forward, a pointing finger accusing the Frenchman, "You confuse me, you make me feel guilty—and you… You are way too intriguing for your own good. How do you even still have a body, how can you prove that I'm not hallucinating, and how—and how can you prove that you make me feel this way?" he asked, a hand now touching his own chest, "Prove it."

It was now Francis' turn to close his eyes, "I… I don't know how."

"… Then can you prove to me why I just believe you?" Arthur said softly, taking another step closer, "Can you tell me why? Because honestly, my brain is just fucking everything up—and this isn't helping. You being here, I mean."

The Frenchman ran a hand through his hair, not wanting to be too close to the Briton, "I've tried to leave, you should know."

Arthur took another step closer, and now their noses were touching; he could feel the coldness just breathing against him, and he whispered something out of the blue, "If I'm this close to you, do you want to kiss me?"

"… Oui," Francis breathed out, not caring if the question was random as hell, but god—their noses were touching, and their breaths were mingling—only a little pucker of the lips and they'd be kissing like there was no tomorrow.

"… Is it strange that I want to as well?"

"… Very," he didn't expect such a question for an answer.

Sighing lightly onto the other's lips, Arthur licked his lips, grazing lightly at the Frenchman's lips, sending a shudder down his spine, "So. We're both attracted to each other. Which means I'm crazy."

"W-Why?"

"Because that means I think a dead person is hot."

"You think I'm hot?"

"That's not the point here!" Arthur exclaimed loudly, both hands going to the French's shoulders, shaking him lightly, "What I'm saying is that—we _could_ work this out."

"How? You have a boyfriend again, remember?" Francis said in a disappointed tone, pulling away, floating to the other side, trying to keep his urges as… pure? No, well, just keep them in a small box for now. Or forever.

"Okay. But there's a side that we haven't thought of yet. Maybe you _don't_ need love. Since you said that you used to hire whores—maybe what you need is someone who's _okay_ with the thought of having sex with you!"

"… Are you high? Because Arthur Kirkland would never say things like these."

"I'm helping you! You should be grateful, you insufferable twat!"

"Okay, he'd say those," Francis said with a small nod of the head, "But you can't have sex with a ghost. It's impossible."

A chuckle rumbled in his throat as the Briton crossed his arms, and looked quite smug for saying, "No. It's possible."

The Frenchman looked quite confused for a few seconds, then lit up in realization as he exclaimed, "When I'm _not_ in my ghost form! When I have a human body—Hey, that's pretty smart."

"You're just stupid."

"Ouch."

"We'll see today. Once you turn human… I'll let you do whatever you want to me. And I assure you, it'll be willing. Let's see if you leave for good," Arthur said, his cheeks flushing lightly at the realization that he would be… literally fucked tonight.

Francis smirked and winked playfully, "I'll be looking forward to it."

Yep.

_Totally_ fucked.

AN: LOOOONG HIAAAATUS BROS. But this is going to be just a sudden update. Because exams are in a month, as I've said before, and I have to alsdfa;sdkfasdfk fucking stuDYING will kill me. Ohwell. Hopefully this short as hell chapter will let you guys know that next chapter will be quite R-18. All the way, man, all the way.

See you guys next time I update! (wheneverthatis)

Reviews are love!


End file.
